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A Sense of Things

by , on
2020-08-13

New poem by Yvette A. Schnoeker-Shorb

How do I understand
these strange times
when, in discovering
my humanity, I lose
my sense of life? Giving

in to ingenuity, I forget
the nature in which I am
embedded, my body,
spirit, brain, mind,
neurons—words

for the elusive
structures that provide
the concept of self,
define Homo sapiens,
or create the contrast

that forms the other.
I know the same-celled
vermin, even individuals,
who dwell within my home
and how to kill

an infestation, yet think
about half robotic
cockroaches designed
to carry miniature
microphones to find

our kind in disasters,
search and rescue
experiments. Then
there are the rodents
caged in labs, engineered

for research, genetic
codes altered, blueprints
to expand our lifespan.
Have I misunderstood
the cost of kinship?

A Love Sonnet – to My Thighs

by , on
2020-08-03

New poem by Sarah Taylor-Foltz

My thighs saunter in black denim, they nail
Men and beasts alike. Truly, they are quite
A pair, even when naked and pale.
They will not deny or ignore their might.

I love how they look in black skinny jeans
The curve at the top, where thighs turn to ass
The beloved moon. They are strong: these queens
They occupy their birthright of space and mass.

They waltz through this world boldly not giving
A shit about how anyone sees them.
My thighs have energy—they are living!
They’re tough and cheeky—my thighs of mayhem.

Wicked thighs—no domestic convention
Can pen them in or demand their attention.

On Beauty

by , on
2020-07-30

New poem by Kim Malinowski

I bet Aphrodite didn’t have to shave her armpits,
no, she would go natural.
A goddess doesn’t have to conform
to societal pressures—
she is the pressure, the ideal, the embodiment
of desire and sensualness.
So, when I think of Aphrodite,
I think of her naked self as hairy,
maybe her navel a little linty. 
Maybe her hair doesn’t cascade
to her waist and maybe both of her breasts
aren’t plump, maybe one is a little lopsided,
and the other a little red at the base.
She has curves and a belly—after all
she ate all that goddess food.
And her eyes are lightning, daring humans
with her sumptuousness, her dazzling bounty.
She spins and the heavens just drool.
That’s what rain is.
Goddesses don’t shave, they just look damn good
in whatever they wear, and do it with pizazz.

S/tick: Angry/Mad is here!

by , on
2020-07-28

That’s right: S/tick Issue 4.4 Angry/Mad is finally here!

Click here to read Angry/Mad now!

What you’ll find inside:

  • Artwork by Elaine Woo, Kristin LaFollette, and Sandra L. Faulkner.
  • Prose by Lisa Levy and Simone Liggins!
  • Poetry by Ann Cefola, brit griffin, Gail Grycel, Jo Lambert, Kate Falvey, M. Eileen, Naomi Borkent, Tiffany Washington, Victoria Bailey, and Zanne Aglio!
  • Some old madness and anger from poets and sisters in the public domain: Adah Isaacs Menken, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and Edna St. Vincent Millay!

And watch here for more Angry/Mad blog posts in the coming months! We will be posting a new piece 1-2 times per week.

Please share widely so we can reach more feminist readers and encourage more feminist writers!

Acrylic Claws

by , on
2020-07-27

New Poem by Anna Kaye-Rogers

I am meant to protect myself, to scratch and tear, a cat hissing in the night. I bare my teeth. Everything is sharp and pointed. I am meant to be fierce, on fleek, my eyebrows rubbed raw. I tear my own flesh and relish the pain. When I am found they will examine each nail, to see what traces have been left behind, that what was underneath was more important all along. 

My kitten kneads me, each claw dangerously close to connect. I am covered in fine red lines, a correcting pen to each stretch mark, every scar, all the places the bumps and bruises settle along my skin. She curls into the caverns in my collarbones, the slow curve of my belly, an outstretched arm threatening to fall off the side of her world. When she is cornered she is afraid, she spends days under the bed, yet now when I sleep the blanket that once protected me feels too thin. There are monsters inside cocoons, and I have met my share. She sleeps on my back and holds me to the world I try so desperately to escape. Tiny claws mark the passage of time, and when my nails chip I peel the rest away. I cannot abide my imperfection, I must cover up all sign I ever was flawed. The soft cotton balls stink of strong poison that I willingly apply to myself.

And when I drink I am told to protect myself, to measure the liquid against the color of the polish. If it changes it means I am not safe, I have been seen as harmless and marked. Why must we teach our girls to dip their fingers in their own drinks, why are our young men not keeping fingers to themselves? Our nails get longer and sharper, we file them to points and bite them to the quick, always peeling and ripping and building anew. We blanket ourselves in pastel pinks and metallic purples, bright blues and soft white lines, until lips and nails match and everything is blackened, for there is power in feeling unreadable. 

I wish to sheathe my claws, to find a safe place to curl up and rest and be left alone, a hidden space that black cats and soft kittens can find. I wish to enjoy my drinks in peace, to luxuriate in my own silence, the actuality of my own being in my own spot and perfectly enough. 

I run my nails lovingly across the backs of necks and shoulder blades, down spines and up sides; to run my fingers through hair lovingly, because I want to be needed too. I want to be capable of murder without breaking a nail, but sometimes there are people who remind you to put your claws away. 

I believe her

by , on
2020-07-23

New poem by Aimee Curran

I believe her.
Drinking too much coffee to stay
awake during the darkest hours.
Waiting up with the moon until it
glides past the lip of the ocean.

I believe her.
Filling herself with strangers
to keep him away in the shadows.
Flicking on the lights despite their protests
and never staying through the night.

I believe her.
Spending holidays at the movies
always buying one ticket and a box of Goobers.
Every Christmas eating pork lo mein at
Cathay Kitchen and asking for extra fortune cookies.

I believe her.
Writing poetry on napkins at the local
cafe, taking advantage of free refills.
Showing up every month at open mic,
sitting in the back, working up the courage to speak.

Angry/Mad: Themed Call for Submissions

by , on
2020-02-05

In an unjust world, there’s a fine line between anger and madness. S/tick Magazine invites you to channel rage into righteous art and writing for its next issue, “Angry/Mad.” Tired of the grotesque facades of rich men in power? White politicians cavorting in blackface? Sexual predators who insist their violations were consensual? Rhetoric on reconciliation without genuine action? People who look at wildfires, rising water, disastrous storms, melting ice caps and deny there’s anything amiss? Submit, but do not be submissive!

Check out the submissions guidelines here.

Deadline: March 31, 2020

Dandelion

by , on
2019-05-17

excerpt from a poem by Jennifer Leider

grimed streetlamps light
pavement plagued with glass
straining—the moon doesn’t come around here
police sirens sing strawberry blueberry

and your hair smells like papaya
youthful energy
in the skulking night gangs
baby-faced boys with jutting chins
hoping guns turn them men
they won’t bother us anyways

this bodega smells like
donkeys and cigarettes and sulfur
we heave ourselves over the fence
to the neighborhood pool
your dad thinks you like boys

Read the rest of Jennifer’s poem in the upcoming S/tick Issue 4.2!

In the meantime, check out Jennifer’s Instagram @followtheleider.

Nurture

by , on
2019-05-09

by Elaine Woo

woman lovingly holding the earth with a blanket

Look for more artwork from Elaine Woo in the upcoming S/tick Issue 4.2!