SGRV6.5: Switchgrass Review 2023 Volume 6 - Radical Body Love

Switchgrass Review • Volume 6 

Radical Body Love

Senior Executive Editor, Manager, and Co-Founder 

Robin Carstensen 

Senior Co-Editor 

Lizbette Ocasio-Russe 

Art and Design Editor and Co-Founder 

Manuel Whitaker Garza 

Assistant Editor-Pagination 

Chloe Swan Rybalka, Script Journey 

Consultant 

Michael Quintana, Script Journey 

Publisher 

Coastal Bend Wellness Foundation 

Bill Jeron Hoelscher, CEO 

Meredith Grantham, COO 

Cover Illustration 

“Healing Waters” (Watercolor on Archival Paper) 

Anel I. Flores 

We are published annually by the Coastal Bend Wellness Foundation. The journal 

emerges from an initiative by Bill Jeron Hoelscher, the CEO of the Coastal 

Bend Wellness (CBWF), to raise awareness of women and girls with HIV 

and other health disparities in the Coastal Bend region of South Texas. This 

initiative began with a coastal bend wellness poetry prize, calling for poems from 

the coastal bend region and across the nation. Switchgrass Review emerged to 

showcase these voices and was co-founded by Dr. Robin Carstensen, Senior 

Editor, and Manuel Garza, Art and Design Editor. The journal has expanded in 

the past few years to include prose and hybrid genres, and to focus on voices 

from women, people of color, the LGBTQ community, people with disabilities, 

the senior community, and historically under-served writers in the Coastal Bend 

Region and beyond. 

Switchgrass Review 

2023 • Volume 6 • Radical Body Love

Switchgrass 

Review 

Volume 6 

Letters 

6 Letter from The Editors • Robin Carstensen and Lizbette Ocasio-Russe 

8 Cover Illustration Artist Statement • Anel I. Flores 

Poetry and Prose 

9 My Thighs • Celeste Oster 

10 My body is a bridge of ants • jo reyes-boitel 

10 My body is an octopus • jo reyes-boitel 

11 My body is a murmuration • jo reyes-boitel 

12 Cake • Jayne-Marie Linguist 

12 fat • Jayne-Marie Linguist 

13 Tres • Chase West 

14 Glass • Chase West 

15 The Body • Michael Quintana 

16 Lovely Bushels and Bone Orchards (Pantoum for the Violently Queer) • Jacob Benavides 

17 One Warm Summer Night • Jacob Benavides 

18 Sand Castles • Anel I. Flores 

21 The Size of Love • Phyllis Rittner

22 Plucked • Alè Cota 

23 when asked for my pronouns • Dustin Marley Hackfeld 

25 Stretching • Dustin Marley Hackfeld 

26 Sensing • Jennifer McKeen Rodrigues 

27 Thank you for your patience • Jennifer McKeen Rodrigues 

28 Land Back • Odilia Galván Rodríguez 

30 Turtle Pose • Lindsay-Rose Dykema 

31 Diastolic Hypertension • Lindsay-Rose Dykema 

35 Our Will Does Not Kill • Cheyenne Sanchez 

38 It’s Just a Phase • Alexander Rodriguez 

40 Wildflower • Corey Johnson 

42 Don’t • Cynthia Bernard 

43 Let Me Be Ugly • Heather Dorn 

44 The Lion in Winter • Charles Etheridge 

48 dancing in july (a ghazal) • Adesiyan Oluwapelumi 

49 At the Altar • Ash Miller 

51 Big Hair • Andrea Perez 

52 A Kitchen Witch’s Recipe • Chloe Tilley 

54 Letter to My Brave Face • John Haymaker 

55 The day I DIDN’T GIVE a FUCK I was fat • Kelly Jones 

57 This Poem Doesn’t Have a Name • Shikha S. Lamba 

58 I Don’t Care Who Knows What About Me • Shannon Frost Greenstein 

60 It takes three to tangle • Tom Murphy 

61 Ode to Change • Christina E. Petrides 

61 Fungus Haiku • Christina E. Petrides 

62 Boobs Haiku • Christina Petrides 

63 Sun Yung-Yu • Steph Schultz 

65 The Case for Lot’s Wife • Margaret Dornaus 

66 On Reflection • Trae Stewart 

68 Contributor Notes

6 Switchgrass Review • Vol. 6 

Letter From The Editors 

As my co-editor, Lizbette, and I write this letter in mid-May to introduce 

our intimate gathering of radical love inside the beautiful body of this 

Volume 6, we’re thinking about the importance of this theme of radical 

self-acceptance. In our world along the Coastal Bend of South Texas, and 

along its waterways and shorelines from the Gulf of Mexico to the Atlantic 

Ocean and beyond, the bodies of people who identify as LGBTQ+, and the 

bodies of women, people of color, disabled, and our elders are threatened 

daily. Some of the most harmful legislative policies against marginalized 

people and communities, especially the transgender community, have 

accumulated in staggering speed and execution across the United States. 

Large swaths of populations, rural and urban, have caught themselves up 

in neo-fascist rhetoric, spiraling the polarized vortex locally and globally 

between fear/hatred and love/acceptance. Being visible and practicing love 

is thus one of the most important things we can do for one another, to give 

each other strength, to remain visible and vigilant in our refusal to be erased 

and in our collective power and energy. This collection is our vigilance and 

determination. 

We’re grateful to the students we have the privilege of working with 

throughout our profession as teachers, writers, and editors who remind us 

of the importance of striving for visibility and a more loving and empathetic 

society. We want to give special thanks to our graduate student Jayne-Marie 

Linguist for her research and writing in Fat Studies, Queer Studies, and 

Disability Studies. It is from her vision that we were inspired to curate a 

series of venues that would honor all of our journeys on this path including 

the March 29th public event, Fat, Funky, Fresh: Queer Feminists Open Mic, 

that led to the creation of this volume. During the enthusiastically attended 

open mic night and in the coming weeks, we called for submissions from our 

creative community for this special flash splash issue dedicated to Radical 

Body Love. We’re pleased to celebrate our first reading on June 8th at the 

Pride Poetry and Silent Art Auction for Corpus Pride 2023, here at the 

Coastal Bend Community Health Center. 

This volume also includes voices that ripple from Half Moon Bay, 

California to Jeju Island, South Korea. These creative pieces cover a range 

of perspectives that include medical providers and counselors, survivors of 

cancer, and survivors of trauma in homes and communities. These voices 

stand in solidarity against tyranny as we grieve our bewildering losses, having

Switchgrass Review • Vol. 6 7 

come so far in civil rights and human dignity, to find ourselves in an epic battle 

to stop an apocalyptic reversal, losing long and hard-fought grounds to the 

rising factions of hate. In our feared bodies, our hated bodies, and our violated 

bodies, we stand and rise to show that we will not be erased; we cannot be 

undone. 

While our contributors’ experiences vary, they’re all focused on healing and 

celebrating our human spirit, hearts, and the vessels which hold them, our 

bodies, breathtaking in their fragility and resilience. We’re humbled and inspired 

by our contributors’ willingness to share their stories which not only showcase 

superior creative talent but also take action against harmful societal standards 

and legislation. To our contributors, we hope you realize that this type of work 

is essential; it saves lives. 

With gratitude and love, 

~~Robin Carstensen and Lizbette Ocasio-Russe~~


Cover Illustration Artist Statement 

On “Healing Waters” 

When queer people dream we stare into the sky, into the moon, into the water, 

into the openness of meditation. We stare onto the canvas, into the glitter of 

the dance floor. We flip through our mother’s closet, stomp onto the floor in 

our fathers hunting boots. 

We try on everything until it fits, until it drapes down our birthing vibrating 

body like a silk scarf. We step out into the surprises, on every edge of the 

atmosphere and imaginary. We step into the darkness and make friends 

with winged grandmothers who tell us how it used to be. We create our own 

playful monsters out of curtains of shooting stars, supers/heros from sprigs of 

lavender, use wands that shoot ocean waves to protect us from the drought of 

love trapped in old paradigms. We are queer. We are bursting, shifting in a new 

paradigm. We are here and we are dancing behind our curtain of stars. 

In my series, Curtain of Stars: A Brave(e)scape for Queer Bodies, I paint 

subjects adorned by their fantastical animal and earth spirit, with their 

largeness and expansiveness gently held inside their imaginary - far from hurt. 

where ancestors speak through them, offer tools of earth and universe to wear 

as amulets of protection - like prayers, like magic, like spirit. 

- Anel I. Flores


Celeste Oster 

My Thighs 

Where is Nirvana? If it’s not right here, it’s nowhere. 

— Lama Surya Das 

They look like green pinecones 

wound up tightly in Spring. 

They look like honey comb, 

sweetness bulging through fascia. 

They look like grenades, 

all brash and bumpy, dimpling 

out the bottom of my shorts 

with such bravado— 

they’ll blow you away.


Jo Reyes-Boitel 

My body is a bridge of ants. 

strung haphazardly from one veined hurt to another 

bless this windless moment that lets me stretch my back 

trust its impossible configurations to meet myself on the other side 

and hold 

this is a kind of grace 

My body is an octopus. 

with the entire seabed my cloak the water, saline and electric, 

becomes an extension of my desire how bodies on the shore – 

their exaggerated knee lifts over each wave, clumsy arms balancing 

against wave crashes while feet pull away from cloying sand – 

alert my skin 

even this awkwardness is a kind of glorious hunger 

I did not know I desperately wanted 

my arms an endless swirl reaching for that eternity of want


Jo Reyes-Boitel 

My body is a murmuration. 

and believe me, this isn’t the ominous thing it’s made to be 

this chorus of discordant voices screaming 

this constant drone 

is about pleasure 

to have seen this morning rise through treetops across pavement 

in this land of neon and cement alcoves 

to know we have made it one more day 

despite the thousand ways we are corralled controlled decimated 

we are still here 

and we are still breathing


Jayne-Marie Linguist 

Cake 

you once told me a diet 

would make my problems go away 

i sat in my room and stayed quiet 

but there are a few things i need to say 

you said that it would be good for me 

and i cursed your name as i ate 

a bowl of sadness meant to be 

something that i did not hate 

you counted and counted until i was gone 

i crawled on the floor until my knees gave out 

i believed you because i wanted to belong 

now i know and now i will shout 

you can try your best to tear me down and take 

what’s a part of me while i’ll eat my fucking cake 

fat 

i step on the scale. it wobbles for a bit and finally 

tells me my truth like a fortune cookie. you’re fat. 

don’t let it get to you. it’s not true. you’re beautiful. 

but do they know what the others say? you’re a wookie. you’re fat. 

prescription pads don’t lie when they tell you to eat 1 bar for breakfast. 

1 bar for lunch. and 1 bar with an apple for dinner. you’re fat. 

physical education became physical lecturing when you fall behind 

on the mile, while the rest of the class are winners. you’re fat. 

i’m sent to bed before the meal can even start for emotions 

that i cannot control. it wouldn’t hurt you to skip one. you’re fat. 

jayne-marie, how do you do it? you have so much confidence in your body. 

well, kid, it took a long time to love myself, but i finally won. i’m fat.


Chase West 

Tres 

3—they say it comes in threes, life, death & tragedies 

the syllables in acceptance are 3, gotta love that irony 

3 years for me to accept who I was, who I am, for me to fetch my self-worth 

out of the trash can. 

You see, I was innocent, just a kid, someone living freely, you thought you 

could change me, beat the gay out of me, leave me exposed on a metaphorical 

hill, 

it doesn’t matter to you, of course, after all, I’m—what did you call it? 

A 3-dollar bill? 

But you have fallen, & I continue to rise. Acceptance took me a while, but I’m 

so much more 

wise 

They say it comes in 3s & now I’m free. A holy trinity. 

I’ve pulled myself out of the squalor. 

Yanked out of my daze, The cashier says dryly, “your total’s gonna be 3 dollars.”


Chase West 

Glass 

I love a good mirror. it took me some years, self-esteem radiating from ear to ear. 

“Why though, you’re so plain?” and “why, why are you so vain?” 

You see, there is no winning, this dates back to my beginning. the beginning of me 

learning the depths of love, the intensities of rage, 

the inescapable reality of my body being a cage. images of my mother crying into the 

mirror, am I a reflection? 

So much beauty & still hated what she saw, am I reviving this curse, toxicities and all? 

The truth is that you, *I*, I say to myself, we can’t win, I’m too fat, you’re too thin, 

I’m too fem, you’re too masculine. 

Society’s standards creating that impossible stage, other days it’s my runway. 

On Mondays I cringe and Wednesdays I jeer, but most days 

I really, really love a good mirror.


Michael Quintana 

The Body 

I felt stretch marks today 

and tried to explain them 

to the body they belonged to 

I imagined a balloon 

then likened them to laugh lines 

I think about it now 

and liken those markings 

to wind running across water 

or, better yet: 

my heart after you.


Jacob Benavides 

Lovely Bushels and Bone Orchards 

(Pantoum for the Violently Queer) 

You proclaim so readily that you are free, 

Lay a hyacinth upon my head. Keep 

tender hands upon this chest that swells. 

Build the pyre they— I so plentifully seek. 

Thrust the hyacinth upon my head. Keep 

lit this flamboyant, this fiery frustration— 

Build the pyre we so plentifully seek. 

Singe the Earth, burn through the violet gaze. 

This flamboyant, firing frustration— 

Sisters, Brothers, Others; toss your blissful ignorance. 

Singe the Earth, burnt through abominate gazes. 

Remember // Learn the ash pulsating a political existence. 

Sisters, Brothers, ephemeral others; cast your blissful ignorance. 

Remember Marsha, Sylvia, Colorado, Pulse 

Remember // Learn the ash that perfumes our plentiful existence 

Cultivate lavender love amongst, against happenstance. 

Remember Marsha, Sylvia, Queer youth, the pulse of rebellion 

In those hands upon this chest swelling within. 

Cultivate aster ammunition amongst explicit happenstance. 

Yes, you can proclaim so readily that you are violently free.


Jacob Benavides 

One Warm Summer Night 

One warm summer night and with the break of a bone 

I felt my marrow shiver. 

I return here when old flames burn cold, 

Where the ghost of a name becomes a breath 

from immaterial lungs 

draped across the cosmos like a plastic sheet. 

Under apple trees and strawberry growths 

It’s beautiful to have loved with the brevity of one warm summer night. 

Summer is serendipitous. 

Overflowing with pomegranate-stained 

angel food youth, luscious and syrup filled, 

Pink bodied nights counting every breath 

overripe by sunrise counting each death; 

One warm summer night and with the silk of a bone 

buried in every vein 

is a cadmium flick, supple honey tongues 

Young blood wanting to be profound 

Found in sherbet clouds and burnt coffee, 

Clandestine hands, adoration unsung 

Eros’ fist caught between two lungs. 

Summer is abundant but fading. 

Like a flare or a memory 

Caught between a megachurch and a tar scorched beach, 

Here the enduring winter refuses to reach. 

One warm summer night and with the mend of a bone 

Those chromatic walls glow like the skin of a peach split open, 

Ripening a heart that remains dormant until awoken. 

And as young as I am, I know 

I knew a love like a cicada song, a love meant to shimmer and die 

Instead of his touch, I know the perfume behind burnt umber eyes. 

That, and the warmth of one summer night.


Anel I. Flores 

Sand Castles 

I don’t mind 

to hide behind the dressing room door 

my hands in your back pockets 

your folded up script and the softness of your hips 

the slurp of sweat collected at the pool of your right collarbone 

the squeeze of your bottom lip between my teeth 

the hair I’ve released from your knotted messy bun 

while we fall in love 

again and again and again 

between scenes 


to meet you between classes 

on the bridge connecting our catholic schools 

where we were told the nuns crossed to swim 

and joked, it musta been a women’s fest when they dropped their habits 

we cracked up, held hands, kissed like kids floated 

suspended by the cars going by 

so fast they didn’t see our bodies intertwined 


to meet you under the darkest night 

far from the primas talking boyfriends and boob size 

where the ocean blends in with the starry sky 

you crush my bones in your arms 

turn my body into warm sand 

soft under your feet 

high tide up against the third sandbar 

splash and back down to the ocean floor


I don’t mind exchanging whispers in the service closet 

while the cops wait at the other end of the hall 

our moms shoot us down with bullets disguised as eyes 

detonating in between our breasts 

below our bellies 

cracks our knees when we run away 


to hide behind the bathroom door 

to kiss you 

to conceal you 

to keep you safe 

it’s part of our way 

the safest way to play 

my steel toe boot 

jammed where the bottom corner meets the frame 

keeps the jotitas, gay boys and qweenas out 

for now 

so we can wrap our arms around each other like snakes 

hiss, slither, quake 

we waited our turn while the others made out 

swam in pink pools of cranberry and ocean waves of vodka 

perfumed accordingly 

and promised the eyes on the back of our head a night off 

I don’t mind my life 

you are lovely 

once a year 

sometimes more 

depending on climate change 

enchanting mountain laurel 

lavender buttons of sweet tits between my teeth 

your red hot seed squeezed between my thighs


I don’t mind the life I’m in 

I learned to love the rain on my skin 

a brisk run from the storm 

the wet 

the cold 

my crushed body into shells 

into castles 

between the fingers of babies 

and the toes of dogs 

behind the bathroom door 

the service closet 

the poem 

the pen 

behind my eyelids 

between my call and your clit 

on the other side of the sea wall 

I don’t mind the sneaking 

the moat all around 

being bound 

we don’t drown.


Phyllis Rittner 

The Size of Love 

They embraced in her foyer. Her throat ached with half-swallowed sentences. 

This scene, rehearsed, attempted and aborted for ten years, finally over. 

Alone, she stared at the key moist in her palm. 

She erased every digital trace, scrubbed and saged the apartment, fell 

asleep to the blue light of the tv. His side of the bed, still molded with his 

impression, she crowded with stuffed animals. 

She went vegan, then paleo, then skipped meals, binging and purging until 

the gym scale revealed his favorite number. She took up African dance, 

stomping floors in bare feet. Nights she filled spiral notebooks, dissecting 

every conversation, her pen slicing each page. 

Months dissolved into a year. Carrying a box of framed photographs to the 

basement, her eyes fell on his worn leather work gloves. Laced with cobwebs, 

they lay face up, like an offering and she flung the box down the stairs. 

She dog-eared recipe books, baked focaccia bread and cannelloni, traded 

her skinny jeans for a red silk dress. Illuminated by the glow of candles, she 

soaked in scented baths, exploring her new curves with manicured fingertips. 

One night she lingered in a pub to prove her body was real. That’s when he 

spotted her in the bar mirror and sparks trickled down her spine. But as he 

spoke, spouting a stranger’s desires, an emptiness spread like gravel through 

her belly. He was mid-sentence, studying his reflection, when she rose, 

weaved through the crowd, escaping into the leap of night.


Alè Cota 

Plucked 

Ma, there is a winged girl atop your rooftop. Enveloped in 

Night, she exhales a birthing cry. Death is cyclical like that 

Remember?–the first must be the last. She faces forward, 

Her toes curled on the stone edge. 

Goodnight never comes softly to womanly silhouettes. 

The gossip of bustling cars & doors shut from overtime appears 

Mute to her volume of hair–wearing your scarlet feathered dress– 

Lifted and swaying. 

It’s layered, folded to hold past selves, shelves of mangled men. 

Men who solicited her to throw away. 

Find myself another tranny. 

They spit, erasing her. But there is a witness tonight. 

The cement waits for her–yearns for salacious pigment– 

Her splatter to color his hunger. Ladybird 

Takes a downward flight. Passes windows filled with 

Men holding different lives, men 

With different wives. 

Falling is to become, Ma. 

The ground catches her flesh–bursting. 

She figured out the meaning of life, mid-flight. 

Maybe to be alive is to be half 

Half-empty 

Half 

Halved in 

two, 

Against gravity, is the 

Situation. The memorial, crimson-feathered. 

Another 

Another man fed. Ma, maybe the 

Bird does not sing but 

Bleeds in half-flights. 

dead. 

Trans woman murdered,


Dustin Hackfeld 

when asked for my pronouns 

when asked for my pronouns 

after Robin Wall Kimmerer 

ripples 

web 

a well 

don’t know 

shoulders 

plow 

a furrow 

hmmmmm 

maybe communal 

body 

a myriad 

microcosms 

i am the bread of microbes 

eat of me 

to replenish 

and be 

replenished 

maybe mushroom 

the fruition 

of hyphal tongues 

singing an 

ephemeral 

body 

into 

the air


or could be 

lichen 

on a rock 

preparing 

a meal 

for the 

mouths 

of roots 

hmmmmm 

hmmmmm 

humus 

yes 

yes 

humus 

dark 

rich 

liminal 

table 

ladened 

with 

death 

and 

breath 

the snail 

the woodlouse 

the worm 

feast upon 

but i digress 

to answer 

the question 

i am antinoun 

and pro verb 

call me by 

one word 

becoming


Dustin Hackfeld 

Stretching 

knot 

of 

kernel 

slender 

aching 

flower 

storm of tender thunder 

streaking roots 

and dark branching breath 

long flowing koto strings 

shake dewy flesh 

from bony boughs 

channels of rainy light 

river cloudy muscles 

and ocean a body in waves 

tendrils twine the spine and bloom blue dawnings 

hips unhinge 

into 

sky 

pelvic corolla 

ribcage pergola 

weave of stars and wind 

a dazzle of suns fires the lungs 

breath a flowering deluge 

eyes open into wombs 

a skull of hyphal fugues felting into a rising moon


Jennifer McKeen Rodrigues 

Sensing 

you ever just lie down 

and stare at the wall 

study the shadows created 

by the decorations hung 

then you notice 

your mouth shape change 

because your jaw relaxed 

and the bridge of your nose softens 

your ears fall back 

then the back of your body 

unbears its burdens 

into the bed below you 

you notice your breath 

you really listen 

to the air passing through your nostrils 

which makes you think 

of the breath moving 

up and down 

your belly 

which you totally forgot 

to keep holding tight 

because the shadows on the wall 

are soft and unmoved 

and the boredom brought you through 

a little journey 

unto yourself


Jennifer McKeen Rodrigues 

Thank you for your patience 

as I undo decades of 

stored tension held 

in my lower belly, 

as I learn to unbridle 

my internal corset 

Thank you for your patience 

while I try on 

radical friendship 

first towards my body and mindlet 

me see how it feels 

against my skin 

within my fascia 

held within my thoughts 

-then within the circumference 

of souls whom I see as 

my chain of support 

the ones who are familiar with 

the song of my heart 

I’ll welcome 

the eternal fitting on 

to the collective body 

of radical friendship 

there is no tag that reads 

One Size Fits All 

this is a life-long flow 

of silhouettes and abounding colors 

of texture as universal and changing as 

the wind 

the universal thread braided into 

One Line 

allows me to come back to 

myself 

and 

I thank you for your patience


Odilia Galván Rodríguez 

Land Back 

a place of lessons 

to learn and be reminded 

of what’s good and not 

for us who know 

in our DNA 

what land is and is not 

how it’s living and 

how tender 

we must care 

for life 

in the balance 

fingers sing 

across a keyboard of flesh 

every note strikes bone 

lights the major and minor 

chords of our bodies 

tightly bound we are 

a concierto de amor 

y vida 

we are 

an alchemy 

of verses of arms that 

have held us 

of lips we’ve tasted 

tender 

of symbols 

traced on skin 

by nimble fingers 

geographic dreaming 

our heaven’s mouth 

a constant line 

of everlasting green 

we are formed and

are born land 

blood river rushes 

our tributaries sing 

ancestral songs of ages 

we know our land 

our body 

we will love it 

back


Lindsay-Rose Dykema 

Turtle Pose 

This morning during my yoga practice, I felt the strength and beauty of what 

I call a Modified Warrior 3. In (OG) Warrior 3, you balance on one leg while 

holding both of your arms out in front of you. I prefer the closest counterpart 

in the Bikram series, which is Balancing Stick Pose; your arms are still out in 

front of you, but you clasp your hands together with the index fingers pointing 

out (similar to what I like to call Charlie’s Angel Pose, because you’re making a 

gun with your hands, and looking hot doing it). 

I started practicing yoga in 2017, which also coincides with the year I went 

from “very dark bad place” to climbing out of said dark bad place, toward the 

wounded warrior I am today. I remember struggling with poses that required 

balancing on one leg, feeling the awkwardness of others witnessing me fall out. 

I low-key decided “I’m just not gonna fuck with balancing poses and focus on 

the poses I like to do, the ones that make me feel strong.” I’m glad one of my 

early yoga teachers got me out of that line of thinking pretty quick, though. 

What yogis do, she told me, is progressive approximation. “If you can’t do a 

perfect Warrior 3 today, you do your Warrior 3 today.” 

In other words, in practicing yoga, you have to risk toppling over in order for 

your body to learn to find its intuition. Over time, at a turtle’s pace, you learn 

what tiny little adjustments other parts of your body can make that keep you 

balancing one second longer. For example, one of the things I have learned 

over time is that incorporating Charlie’s Angel Pose into any leg-balancing pose 

helped me find my center of gravity. The amount of force I can generate with 

one centimeter of surface area of my hand is enough to tighten my core, and 

once stabilized, I can just chill the fuck out on that one leg. If you would have 

told me in 2017, “Touching the tips of your index fingers together will help you 

balance longer on one leg,” I would have responded with a rhetorical question: 

“What kind of pixie fairy dust are these yogis smoking?” 

My yoga teachers have been traumatized AFABs who have learned to trust 

their own bodies, and to hone their instincts. Traumatized people, while 

hypervigilant around perceived threats when they are actually safe, also 

sometimes struggle to see actual threats when they are in fact in danger. Zenju


Earthlyn Manuel said it best 

(in Buddhism her name means “complete tenderness”): 

Neglected intuition is a 

life-threatening symptom 

of the disease of oppression. 

We must turn instead, she said, to what we know in our bones. 

This morning I saw a client, a 19-year-old college student with PTSD, who 

started his session with “Welp, I’m single.” Knowing how emotionally abusive 

and manipulative his partner was, and what kind of a hold she seemed to have 

over him, I wasn’t sure whether to say “congratulations” or “I’m sorry.” So I just 

asked for the story of how it went down, which was essentially: I set boundaries. 

I gave her the opportunity to respect those boundaries. She chose not to. Later, he 

told me about spending time in queer spaces, talking more to friends, killing it 

academically. He sounded as strong and capable as I have ever seen him. 

To be clear, once upon a time, my client was still going by the name Marielle. 

During one of our early sessions, he was clearly aware that his girlfriend had 

only mistreated him, but he could not bring himself to end the relationship. 

“She’s the only person I’ve ever dated, the only person who actually knows me. 

I can’t bear the thought of starting over.” (Bless your heart, I wanted to say. You’re 

19 years old. Do you have any idea how many times you’re going to have to start 

over?) 

My client has spent the past year working his ass off in psychotherapy. He 

started gender-affirming hormone therapy, and takes the pills I’ve prescribed. 

He told me that his ex-girlfriend still calls him most days, to ask how he’s doing. 

She’s worried about him, she says. But while his ex is grieving what she has now 

realized she has lost, my client is, as I said, as strong and capable as I have ever 

seen him. He is aware she asks how he’s doing not out of genuine concern, but 

out of a wish to see that he is doing as badly as she is. In other words, wanting 

him to be in pain. I don’t feel any sort of sadness, he told me. I don’t know if it’s the 

medications making me numb, or… Not to detract from the potential side effects 

of psychotropic medications (though I did recommend we start tapering one), I 

posed a question to him: Is this numbness, I asked, or is this growth? The smile on 

his face seemed to point to the latter.


He shared a story as we wrapped up our session. I saved a turtle from campus. 

They had it in an aquarium that was half the size it should have been. The water was 

all gross and they said it was because they were studying the effects of gross water on 

turtles. It’s my pet now. Its shell had basically rotted. But I cleaned it up, and it has all 

the space it needs now. 

I wanted to say: you’re a Turtle Hero, is what you are. Your shell has rotted away, 

and your authentic self -- the strong, capable, single you -- has all the space it 

needs to recover and grow. And to think, there was a time that turtle couldn’t 

bear the thought of starting over. But, ever so slowly, it has. 

I remember my yoga practice, how I have slowly learned, through daily toppling, 

that touching my fingers together helps me balance on one leg longer. I want to 

morph into Doctor Seuss with a pep talk for the Turtle Hero: 

You’ll survive on water! 

You’ll survive on land! 

Sometimes you’ll survive 

by holding your own damn hand.


Lindsay-Rose Dykema 

Diastolic Hypertension 

For me, one of the hardest parts of Roe v. Wade’s downfall was reading that 

52% of female-bodied respondents to a poll indicated they were pleased with 

the SCOTUS decision. Zenju Earthlyn Manuel’s book The Way of Tenderness 

would later remind me that one of the most prominent symptoms of 

systemic oppression is neglected intuition, but at the time I lacked capacity 

for this brand of empathy. I remember thinking: What is WRONG with 

you people? Brainwashed? Blind? Put on your white bonnets and bare your 

barely-viable proud boy babies! 

Not long after that, my primary care provider started me on anti-hypertensive 

medication. 

Two medication trials later, my systolic blood pressure responded beautifully, 

but my diastolic remained somewhat stubbornly elevated. It is as if my arteries, 

ignoring pharmacodynamics and acting solely on their own intuition, 

never let their guard down. They keep gripping just a little, clamping my 

blood like they hate letting go. (My partner told me that when I climax, my 

vagina clamps down on him starts leaking and squeezing him clenching him 

like it hates letting go. This body just knows.) So, in my meditation space, I 

lean into learning to let go. While hypertension looms as the so-called “silent 

killer,” meditation remains as my silent treatment. 

One of my favorite texts on meditation is Lama Rod Owens, a queer Black 

Buddhist monk and activist who describes a series of techniques he has 

termed “the seven homecomings” in his book Love and Rage: A Path to 

Liberation through Anger. I’m not sure whether this was his intent, but it is 

in practicing Lama Rod’s meditations that I have crafted an inner representation 

of what I call “God,” one I can draw upon at any time. The homecoming 

practices offer layers of wisdom and warmth that progress as follows: guides 

and teachers; meaningful texts; community; ancestors; nature and the earth; 

silence; and, finally, the self. Meditation is how I seek out wisdom and follow 

where it leads me, and (spoiler alert) it will always lead us home, to our own 

selves. 

In order for meditation to lead us “home,” we broaden our perspective as 

widely as the Milky Way galaxy both now and a long time ago, and feel our


way to our own physical bodies as we inhabit them in the present moment; 

this saves us the confusion of knowing how far back, exactly, we want to trace 

our roots. Or, perhaps better said for many, how far we can trace our roots. 

Consider, for example, the address James Baldwin presented to a group of 

students at the West Indian Student Centre in 1969. He started his speech 

with an anecdote about a Trinidadian boy asking him a simple question: 

Where are you from? He told the boy he’d been born in Harlem, but the 

question became: Yes, but where are your people from? This led to the best 

one-line description of the African Diaspora I have ever heard: The paper 

trail ends at the cash register. 

At the end of the day, our physical bodies are all just meat that our souls 

walk around wearing, for an average of 77.28 years. But I acknowledge that 

the thin-bodied white-skinned meat I’ve walked through the world wearing 

has offered me numerous advantages over the course of my life, and it is 

my responsibility to try my best to understand how other people’s meat has 

subjected them to forces of oppression, to listen to as many stories as I can. 

We must all keep our eyes and ears open, to imagine what it would be like 

to walk around with someone else’s meat -- a Black body or a trans body or 

a disabled body or an ostrich’s ridiculous wingless body, the fastest creature 

on two legs. If we are to help each other survive, there is no other option but 

to keep listening until we can understand well enough to weave it into our 

worldview. 

I will keep trying hard, but also try to be softer, on myself especially, to care 

for this body, not because it’s a temple -- fuck that, you think I’m gonna invite 

a bunch of churchgoers inside me to just, like, hang out? -- but because it’s 

mine and no one else’s. I get to choose who gets my sweat and tears, and my 

blood can stay warm in the sunbeams of those who support me and see what 

I see: this wide-eyed wild child trying hard to try a softer way of supporting 

herself and others.


Cheyenne Sanchez 

Our Will Does Not Kill 

When she arrives 

She is on a drive 

Not the kind with a car 

But the kind where 

She’d very much like to 

Be alive and not 

Suffer the uterine 

Blood clot chain 

The cord attached to 

A newborn pain 

The cry of life that would 

Bring her disdain 

Where she’d only have 

Scraps of pink slime 

And ramen 

And dollar menu fixings 

Just to sustain 

Meanwhile milk and 

Puree and medicine for the 

Little one she’d strain 

Her wallet 

Or her state-flagged card 

Which would tag itself 

As an object of shame 

By the onlookers 

Whom the chance to 

Completely forgo this pain 

Their thin paper doctrines 

Dictate she does not 

Deserve to attain. 

When she enters 

Hand intwined with 

That of her mother


Whose cracked shield 

Broken by maternal fear 

Gives way to a deluge 

Of crystal clear tears 

The girl’s stature and 

Her attire of 

Glitter and pastel 

And beads adorning 

Her doll-faced adolescence 

Becomes focused in the center 

Of the swirling shouts 

And cajoles and jeers 

From the seated powers 

That dehumanize 

That chastise 

That delegitimize 

What is supposed 

To be her innocence 

The picketed crowd 

Spewing pious rage 

Forever blind to 

The girl’s tender age 

Her shining doe-eyed 

Expression of porcelain 

Purity a mask over 

A wound unhealed 

And raw 

Only present in 

Her still sprouting mind 

When he walks in 

It is because 

There is growth within 

That utterly betrays 

The body he is claiming 

As finally his 

And not that of she 

Whom his birth 

Family demands him


To be 

On the table 

Dressed by a 

Ghostly thin 

White paper sheet 

Head in hands 

He weeps 

The hands of 

The clinician 

On his shoulder 

Offering solace 

As reflected in 

Their caring eyes 

A comfort denied 

By all who glare 

With scourging eyes 

Saved by the scalpel 

Protected by the pill 

Walking on the tightrope 

Threaded by force of will 

No matter the spread 

Or shrieks 

Or yells 

Or shouts 

The threats of hell 

And the false hopes 

The opposition spouts 

Only we are the masters 

Of our bodies 

Our minds 

Our lives 

Our hands 

As the guides 

We drive our own fates 

And for that 

We’ll disregard the hate


Alexander Rodriguez 

“It’s Just a Phase” by Alexander Rodriguez


Alexander Rodriguez 

Artist’s Statement: 

In accordance with the theme of radical body love and feminist’s\queer 

resistance, I have created a sketch that reflects the often misguided and 

unsympathetic response to mental health and identity challenges; it’ll 

pass, it’s just a phase. This sketch captures the isolation and desperation 

those suffering from mental health and/or identity struggles experience.


Corey Johnson


Corey Johnson 

“Wildflower” 

This poem is about my life being overtaken by my bad habits, at different ages I 

would say that the wildflower is a different thing. It can be beautiful & comforting, 

but so detrimental at the same time.


Cynthia Bernard 

Don’t 

Don’t ask a bluebird to be green, 

snow to be warm, 

the ocean to stop reflecting the sky. 

Don’t paint a seagull shameful red, 

sunshine a dreary grey, 

my living heart the coldest blue. 

Or not. 

I could be thin, you know, 

slim, slender, svelte. 

I’ve done it before. 

No trouble at all, 

just follow the plan, 

lots of this, none of that, 

precisely this much of the other. 

Early morning meetings, 

the scale decides— 

feel bad, feel good— 

bright colors or black, 

tight pants or baggy. 

Adhere to this gospel. 

Immense hunger— 

for life, for love, 

for all kinds of delicious, 

welcoming everything that 

caresses my tongue, 

my mind, my heart: 

Don’t ask me to live anything less.


Heather Dorn 

Let Me Be Ugly 

Everyone tells me how good wigs are these days: I can help you find a wig. 

Insurance pays for wigs. You will look beautiful in a wig. Nobody will be able 

to tell you’ve lost your hair. 

I think they say these things to avoid talking about the more permanent 

things I may lose: my breasts, my health, my life. 

I type “breast cancer chemo” into the Google search bar and it offers: “side 

effects,” “hair loss,” and “how to look beautiful.” How to look beautiful during 

chemo. This punches me in the throat. That I should even think of looking 

beautiful during chemo. Beautiful to who? 

Maybe one day during treatment I will want to feel beautiful to myself or 

others. Maybe one day I will want a long wig and fake lashes to replace the 

ones that fall out. Maybe I will draw my eyebrows on like a movie star. I’m 

not trying to diminish the feelings of other cancer patients – other survivors, 

thrivers, warriors who want to wear a wig, put on makeup, maybe pretend 

to be cancer free in a society that stares in pity. But isn’t it a bit too much to 

expect? To ask us to be warriors and brave and fight while being pretty? 

I’m battling an ugly thing. Let me be ugly. 

Let me put away my foundation. I wear it so my face has color. I wear it so I 

don’t look sick for my students. I wear it because it smooths my pores, makes 

me look photoshopped. Why should I be concerned with pores when a lump 

in my right breast is trying to kill me faster than the river of a wrinkle can 

form? 

Let me put away my concealer. There is nothing left to hide. I walk around 

my doctors’ offices with my gown open to the front. The nurse reminds me 

to close it before we leave the room. My breasts are not a mystery. I have no 

modesty.


Let me put away the eyeshadow. I wear it so my eyes look darker. I wear it so I 

look feminine for my boyfriend. I wear it because I like it, but I like it because 

it looks like women in magazines. Who decides which women live in magazines? 

Who decided symmetry should be celebrated in thin pages? 

Let me put away my powder. Nothing stays in place. Everything is in flux. Let 

me put away my mascara. My lashes are going to fall out anyway. I don’t have the 

strength to bat them at anyone to get free drinks and I shouldn’t be in crowded 

places. Let me put away my blush. I have rosacea and a round face. Let me put 

away my eyeliner. There is no border between my lid and eyes. The liner will grow 

into the whites the way my tumor spreads. It will stain them alien black and I can’t 

see the galaxies for the trees. 

Let me put away my brush. My hair is going to fall out. Let it live wild while it can. 

Let it curl and split and tangle until it sheds to my pillow. Let it shed. Let it fall out 

so I can fight without it blowing into my eyes, obscuring my vision. 

I’ve been told I’m brave, though I don’t feel it. I feel scared. I didn’t choose to fight 

cancer. Can someone be brave if they are pushed into a battle? Does it make other 

people feel better to think I’m brave? Does this mean they don’t have to witness 

the fear? 

Cancer patients describe themselves as fighters, survivors, thrivers, warriors. 

These self-defined terms don’t feel right for me. Maybe because I’m just starting 

my journey. My fight. Maybe because the port placement still hangs in my chest 

as heavy as my diagnosis. Maybe because I haven’t fully accepted it, though I talk 

about it non-stop. I have cancer, I say easily, without emotion. It’s just a fact I don’t 

yet understand. I have cancer. 

And now, even though I haven’t found the right self-definition, I’ve become a 

fighter, survivor, thriver, warrior to the world. I’m days away from starting chemo. 

I have soft sheets and bamboo washcloths and ginger candy and no-slip socks. 

These are the weapons I take to chemo, where nurses will pump poison into my 

veins. 

This doesn’t make me feel like a warrior.


I think of mythical Amazonian women, strong and skilled. Living outside the 

patriarchy. Or the archeological team who excavated 2000-year-old graves to 

find Sarmatian women buried with their weapons. 

The patriarchy wants to give me a wig, but I want a crossbow. Where is my 

spear? Where is my sword? 

Even if a wig can help me, even if it helps me by making me feel more beautiful, 

even if feeling beautiful can raise my self-esteem, I must ask what my selfesteem, 

my self-image, is relying on? How many women had to Google How to 

look beautiful during chemo to make that a popular search? 

The chemo will take my hair. This will make me aerodynamic. I will swim 

without resistance. The chemo will take my eyebrows. My enemy will never 

read the pain on my face. The chemo will make me puffy. Maybe even gain 

weight. Let me take up space. Like confronting a bear in the woods, I will make 

myself large and make loud sounds to scare my cancer away. If the world wants 

me to be a warrior, let me look like one. 

Let me be ugly. Let me be as ugly as the necrotic cells eating my tit.


Chuck Etheridge 

The Lion in Winter 

For Mr. Beebe 

(2003-2023) 

For twenty years he slept on my belly, 

Shedding orange fur, 

Spearing my nipple with a sharp claw 

Purring loudly, unashamed, 

His convenience and comfort 

More important than my passing pain. 

As a kitten, he scaled 

My bare legs, 

Daggerlike claws 

Spearing flesh, 

So cute I let him get away with it, 

A pattern that dominated our shared life. 

As an adult, he ruled the neighborhood, 

A massive, orange furred predator, 

Feared by every dog and cat, 

Beloved by every person, 

Who fed him, had their own name for him, 

But he always came back to me and my belly. 

He trained everyone in the house, 

To put soft pillows around, 

To leave cups of water in the bathroom and on the coffee table, 

To provide wet and dry food prepared just so, 

And finally, his piece de resistance, 

He got his own room.


He trained our dogs as backup— 

All he had to do was let out a yowl 

And our German shepherd and beagle 

Would burst through the gate, onto the street 

And corner his assailant— 

That cat had bodyguards. 

One Sunday, wheezing, 

He climbed onto my belly, 

Purred loudly, 

Fell asleep, 

Jerked a few times 

And was gone. 

I still find fur, 

Random bits of cat food, 

A scratch mark, 

But when I sit to relax, 

My belly feels naked, 

Missing purrs and sharp claws.


Adesiyan Oluwapelumi 

dancing in july (a ghazal) 

boy, you are pouring into miracles again... 

the garden of your bones rattling like a storm in july. 

with my hands, i bury your throat into its grave, 

your music falling like sickled pears in july. 

there are rosaries of tombs trailing your steps, 

your feet preying into every cemetery like a mass funeral in july. 

in a curfew of water, we dance... 

our legs wading through a turbulent night in july. 

in a deluxe, i illusion you for a fine ghost, 

luxuriant column of formless vacuum in july. 

i am dreaming of you in another nightmare 

your body a god made of dust in july. 

who will hear a song calligraphed in rain? 

from whose lips will a god breathe in july? 

the music fractures like a broken stem... 

wounds do not heal in july.

Ash Miller 


“At the Altar” 

She steps to my grave and asks for wisdom. 

I tell her: 

Young girl, 

no rape story 

will grant empathy 

to a man 

who never held interest. 

I tell her: 

During my tenth summer, 

I begged for my life. 

Decades later 

I still pleaded for my humanity. 

I offered myself at the altar. 

I opened my wounds; 

picked my bones clean. 

I tell her: 

I prayed 

for my stories to be enough. 

We prayed 

for our stories to be enough. 

During prayer, 

I opened my eyes and wept 

at the women before me 

gutting themselves, 

reliving their worst moments 

as they begged for change. 

I turned 

and my foremothers 

embraced me in skeletal arms. 

I tell her: 

Do not let me 

embrace you in my skeletal arms.


I tell her: 

Your body is yours. 

Your story is yours. 

You do not exist for their consumption. 

I tell her: 

Bones are all I have left, 

hollowed eyes and long teeth. 

Young girl, 

they are yours. 

Fashion them into tools. 

Wield them as weapons. 

Please, 

Do not join me at the altar.


Andrea Perez 

Big Hair 

When I was young I remember being teased because of my hair 

Too nappy, too kinky 

Constantly being told to take the curls out and use blonde dye 

Back before there were straighteners as a household items 

My sister would use the clothing iron 

Praying she would not burn your scalp 

Now that I am older I have learned to accept my curly hair 

I proclaim ethnic hair don’t care days and wear it down with pride 

After all, people pay money for these curls!


Chloe Tilley 

Ingredients 

1. 2 Cups Self-love 

2. 1 Cup Acceptance of love 

3. 4 tsp of Medication 

4. 1 oz Positivity 

5. 3 tbsp Confidence 

6. 1 tbsp Sugar (for sweetness) 

7. 2 tbsp Spice of choice (for a kick) 

Steps 

A Kitchen Witch’s Recipe 

1. Begin with water, as all things in this world did. When you looked in the 

mirror when you were 14, you hated what you saw: brown skin, big nose, 

big lips, brown eyes, singed hair that wasn’t naturally straight, and a body 

that was not like the ones in the beauty commercials. When you were 21, 

you began to see the beauty in your unique features and how they make 

you you. Now you are 23, pour two cups of self-love into the cauldron. A 

subtle vermillion reaction should occur. 

2. When you were 17 you believed you couldn’t love because you believed 

no one found you attractive. You have successfully expelled this. Now, 

pour acceptance of love into the cauldron. The mixture should now foam 

into a bubbly paradise that accepts the warm embrace of others. 

3. When you were 19, you realized that praying alone couldn’t help with 

the secret war within the battlefield of your mind. Spirituality allowed 

some sanctuary, but you realized you required something secular and 

empirical. Add 1 teaspoon of each into the cauldron: Abilify, Concerta, 

Hydroxyzine, and Lexapro. The bubbles should contract and begin to 

become more relaxed. 

4. When you were 21, a global pandemic hit and it was hard to maintain 

your mental health. A physical sickness overcame the world, yet another 

sickness of greed also dictated the lives of the vulnerable. You relapsed


and regretted things you said and did during these lows. You gained weight 

and relapsed into a state of self-hate. However, you eventually found peace 

and reconciliation with yourself. Add an ounce of positivity to the cauldron, 

as a treat. 

5. The journey to self-love is no hero’s journey. You have yet to return with 

this elixir, a permanent cure to escape from white supremacist and sexist 

beauty standards. With this next add-in, you will be able to say “screw all of 

that” and hold your head high. Add three tablespoons of confidence to the 

cauldron. The mixture will fizzle to a bronze glow. 

6. Add one tablespoon of sugar for the sweetness you will have for yourself 

and others. 

7. Add one tablespoon of spice of choice. (Write-in: Paprika). This will add 

a kick for you to resist negativity and not take shit from anyone, not even 

yourself.


John Haymaker 

Letter to my Brave Face 

You were thirteen and gay. It was 1969. Playground taunts often reminded 

you that being homo was the worst thing anyone could be, worse than being 

a murderer on death-row. Yet you asked a favorite teacher, Mr. Costopolous, 

if the government deported known homosexuals. “Who’d want you?” Mr 

C. spat back and pivoted away like the Vietnam vet he was. Rude response, 

yet you felt reassured knowing you couldn’t be deported. No country would 

accept you. Still, you never hid your sexual bent, not from Mr. C or from 

the government. Good to find the world grew ever more understanding and 

welcoming for homosexuals. And by the way, we’re all learning too that deathrow 

convicts are often innocent.


Kelly Jones 

The day I DIDN’T GIVE A FUCK I was fat 

The day I didn’t give a fuck I was fat, I finally reclaimed my sense of dignity. 

I spent plenty of time worrying about what everyone else thought and how 

much extra space I was taking up. In fact, I started to go out of my way to take 

up even more space and get into people’s faces even more than usual. I wanted 

to be seen, you know for who I really am. My voice raised by octaves and my 

stance by inches. I was unstoppable. Nothing was fucking wrong with me. 

The day I didn’t give a fuck I was fat, I finally did it. I took that Ruger double 

action revolver with me on my jog that morning. I have jogged every morning 

since the sixth grade. After I got my period, my tits and hips took over, and I 

couldn’t stand it! That’s when I started jogging. I watched every calorie that 

passed through my lips. I wouldn’t even dare smell cookies baking. I swore 

it would make my ass jiggle. One day, it was too much. That was the day I no 

longer gave a fuck. 

The day I didn’t give a fuck I was fat, I quit dating all together. I realized 

that I was letting my value depend on my attachments to people. After taking 

all that time to myself, I decided it was best to stay single. Instead of investing 

in relationships, I invested in my education. Now, my name carries as much 

weight as my ass. Those three little letters, PhD, are heavy, and they have been 

useful when throwing my weight around. 

The day I didn’t give a fuck I was fat, I finally found the courage to do it. I cut 

them all off. My dad. My grandmother. I decided it was time to do what was 

best for me. It was June. I had just graduated from high school and moved from 

Texas to Michigan. I wanted to get as far away as possible from them all! That 

small town was TOO small. Small minds. Small people. I needed ROOM! I 

gave myself all the space I needed. 

The day I realized I was fat 

The day I realized I was fat, a boy in my class called me, “Kelly Belly”. I didn’t 

even do anything to him. I was nice to everyone. Isn’t that what our


teacher taught us?! There was even that one scene in “Bambi” where the mom 

tells them, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all!” I always 

noticed that I took up more space than everyone else, but I didn’t think it was 

bad. No one had ever made fun of the size of my belly before. 

The day I realized I was fat… Well, I don’t really remember the exact day. I 

do remember it was in the fifth grade. I had just started my period, and nothing 

fit me right. Why didn’t Ms. Sturm mention that when she taught us about getting 

our period? She told us about cramps, blood, and pregnancy. Why didn’t 

they mention we would get fat? I think I’m the only one. No one else’s shirts fit 

them funny. 

The day I realized I was fat, my very first boyfriend broke up with me. He 

cited the excuse that “I just wasn’t his type anymore” before he started dating 

someone else. She was skinnier than I was. He told me that was what made her 

“hot”, or whatever. He’s so stupid. I mean she doesn’t even know how to write 

an essay. I had to tutor her in Mrs. Kveton’s class. She couldn’t even read the 

word brain. She kept saying, “Brian”!!!!!!!! 

The day I realized I was fat was the day I was born. My daddy always lovingly 

called me “Chunky Cheese.” My grandmother always fed me full of all the 

goodies while simultaneously telling me about how much better and healthier 

I’d be if I would just lose a few pounds. She even offered to buy me a bikini if 

I lost weight one time. I sometimes wonder if my weight is the reason why my 

mother won’t take me with her when she goes out in public.


Shikha S. Lamba 

This Poem Doesn’t Have a Name 

No, this will be untitled - without definition, 

just as she would like to be. 

It may be politically correct, or not. 

It may sound rude - Is Fat a rude word? 

Why do we entangle bodies in explanations? 

Rationalize the pleasantly plump? 

The girls with nice faces and heavy thighs 

and belly rolls. 

Are there complimentary synonyms for fleshiness, 

that accompany definitions for bodies 

that are abundant, generous and 

overflowing with exuberance and skin? 

Where do these bodies fit? (In this world) 

Where do they sit with their belly weight, 

reassured and audacious despite their paunchiness? 

Why do we define anything at all? 

No, this is not one of those poems. 

At least, not yet.


Shannon Frost Greenstein 

I Don’t Care Who Knows What About Me – after Beau Sia 

I don’t care who knows what about me. Except for when that thing happened 

behind the camper when I was five years old in Toledo. – Beau Sia, “Toledo” 

Shame 

like a pall 

like I’m mourning the soul 

I used to be 

clings to the surface of my skin 

heavy and viscous, a permanent stain 

my version of Hester Prynne’s regret 

and I woke up this morning 

to make the world a better place 

nonetheless. 

The guilt 

of a lifetime of bad choices 

has always trailed behind me like a shadow; 

the trauma 

of a lifetime of mental illness 

has always divined my path like an oracle. 

Remorse like theme music 

guides all of my steps 

but this ongoing Herculean effort 

to heal 

might just actually be working. 

Anorexic and Bipolar, a writer and a mother 

years of therapy 

and the Nietzschean urge 

to overcome, 

I make breakfast even as I grapple 

with the lure of ideation;


Ceaselessly seeking to atone, 

I smell cut grass 

and pungent caffeine 

as the kids leave for school 

and I am grateful to be alive. 

I have sloughed off the scars of my past 

presented naked 

for the judgement of all 

and grown a whole life anew 

from the fertile ground of the restitution 

I was owed for my youth. 

So I don’t give a f*ck 

who knows 

what 

about me. 

Except, that is, 

for all of the shit 

that traumatized me so badly 

in the first place. 

I never want anyone 

to know 

anything 

about any of that.


Tom Murphy 

It takes three to tangle 

Remember the battle of Anita Hill 

Staring Uncle Thom — ass 

and his wife, 

Long Dong Strap-On 

Senator Chappaquiddick 

and Queasy Orrin Mormon 

left the other four women outside 

Low blow Joe’s deal 

ended Roe vs Wade 

Long Dong left a voice mail 

Apologize! (a supposed olive branch


Christina E. Petrides 

Ode to ‘The Change’ 

You give me unprecedented courage, 

but have me gulp predawn javas 

to achieve minimal coherence, 

and sip chamomile to doze 

fitfully past midnight. 

Your abrupt fluxes 

demand winter tanks 

and summer parkas. 

You flatten my posterior, 

yet inflate my waist; 

first, I am a rung-out mop, 

then an over-stuffed goose. 

Altogether, though, are you so bad? 

I’ve relinquished lunar misery 

and have grown neither horns nor hooves.


Christina E. Petrides 

Fungus Haiku 

I am a mushroom, 

sitting in the silent dark, 

growing soft and round. 

Boobs Haiku 

Let those bold bosoms 

do what they will: bounce, jiggle, 

just sag with relief.


Steph Schultz 

Sun Yung-Yu 

The cracks in your face ran deep. 

Did I or the age drive the scalpel - 

Scraping more, sculpting less? 

Talking enough to bore us, 

Lulling us to soft sleep 

Where we could dream – 

Dream about 

Nothing but 

Wasted times. 

Coughing up bitter blood 

Whenever we spoke, 

You said you didn’t belong 

And I believed you. 

You said you weren’t good 

Enough, too stupid. 

I didn’t 

Believe you 

That time. 

But if you were that dense, 

Dancing after the dozens 

Of white men and mercy 

Would we still have met? 

I wouldn’t even be able to 

Move my teeth today. 

And then I 

Asked you for 

your time.


Maybe you were right 

About me. Maybe I was 

Just mistaken, a mistake. 

Yet still I regret not trading 

My blood for more moments, 

My only miserable money. 

Foreigners formed from 

The finished furniture 

And the unfurnished roof. 

Glaring at the sun 

For too long, I saw the 

Lingering black behind it. 

Young sun 

Could you please 

deliver us? 

Take my blood - 

Count clock ticks - 

Slow the time.


Margaret Dornaus 

The Case for Lot’s Wife 

I imagine there are worse things. Like being chided for everything you might 

think or say or do. As if you were a toddler. As if you had no thoughts or 

feelings to call your own. What if someone told you it was time to gather 

just what you could carry in your heart and leave the rest behind? Without a 

trace of who you’d been. Without even knowing what might become of you 

or your daughters—the ones your husband cast off as chattel. 

Look, I’m not asking for forgiveness. And it’s too late for mercy. Regardless, 

here I am, still standing, straight and tall, year after year, above a place long 

buried beneath a torrent of fire and brimstone. Bearing witness to the past. 

To the future. Without judgment or envy. Like the pillar of strength that 

I am. Like the salt of the earth I always was. Not so different from you, I 

imagine. Not so different at all.


Trae Stewart 

On reflection 

Fuck, I hate myself sometimes, 

Just my body, 

My mind is on point, thank you very much. 

Husky old bear, 

stretch marks like caution tape pulled until unreadable, 

across a drape of adipose billowing over my struggling waistband, an invading 

country’s flag on foreign soil, 

Chalky, ghost-like dough that doubles in size within a season, 

Pannus of self-loathing obstructs change, 

And desire of myself. 

I’m alright, kinda cute, I guess, in my own way, 

Unenthused self-talk, I swipe left on myself, 

Few other choices, seek something better, 

Brown eyes like the world, even cows, 

I’m a cow, Guernsey or Jersey related, 

I wonder if the See ’n Say - the Farmer Says - would play my voice. 

But, damn, if I don’t be a tender boy, my mama says so, 

Marbled from the permanent imprints in the Lazy Boy, 

Buttery, melt in your mouth, under the gristled exterior, 

Maybe that’s why he loves me, 

I’m like a fine cut, 

Aged to perfection, 

To be devoured, 

A delicacy, 

I serve up the main course, sides, dessert, 

Like a Vegas buffet, glittery simulacra with questionable morals. 

I live it, this body, 

I diet and starve to change it,


Deserving a binge on self-esteem, 

Because I hate my form, 

Or others have made me hate it, 

Now, I nourish someone with my essence, 

I feel his love in my reflection, more often when I don’t avoid mirrors, 

Since I love him, I love that I sustain us, 

From what I truly am, inside. 

I don’t hate myself, really, 

Because of him, mirrors grow more tolerable, like a work acquaintance, 

I’m still smart as shit.


Contributor Notes 

Jacob R. Benavides is a writer from Corpus Christi, TX who holds a BA in 

English from Texas A&M University Corpus Christi and is pursuing an MFA 

in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Oklahoma State University. His work often 

deals with the ephemeral nature of representations and seeks to contribute to 

the conversations of form and feeling as they relate to the margins of form and 

a Queer South Texas existence. These poems touch on the sacred, Queer love 

that is at once something to be cradled but also blown apart and examined, 

resistance in lyricism. 

Contact him at: jrben00@icloud.com and instagram handle @jabejohnson. 

Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late sixties who is finding her voice as 

a poet after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a 

spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 20 

miles south of San Francisco. 

Alè Cota is a trans performance artist, educator, and poet. She holds a B.A. 

from Carleton College in both Latin American and Gender Studies. Her work 

primarily focuses on poetry narrating the violence against trans women, the 

paradoxes of stitched cultural-gender identities, and the ontological quest of 

home and family as illegibly constructed against queerness. 

Email: alecotaix@gmail.com Insta: ale.cota.ix 

Heather Dorn has done three rounds of chemo and has twenty-one left. She 

shaved her hair with dog clippers when it started falling off in chunks. When 

she isn’t getting chemo she’s a lecturer at Binghamton University. Her poetry, 

fiction, essays, and art can be found in The American Poetry Review, Paterson 

Literary Review, Shrew: A Literary Zine, and similar journals. Her first book 

of poetry How to Play House, from Roadside Press, came out in February to 

rave reviews from her mother. She hopes that one day she will have a washing 

machine of her very own. 

Email: heatherdorn@me.com 

Margaret Dornaus holds an MFA in the translation of poetry from the 

University of Arkansas. Her poetry appears in numerous journals and 

anthologies, including I-70 Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Minyan Magazine, 

MockingHeart Review, and One Art. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net 

nominee, her first book of poetry, Prayer for the Dead: Collected Haibun &


Tanka Prose, received a 2017 Merit Book Award from the Haiku Society of 

America. In 2020, she had the privilege of editing and publishing a pandemicthemed 

anthology—behind the mask: haiku in the time of Covid-19— 

through her small literary press Singing Moon. 

Lindsay-Rose Dykema, MD (she/her/hers) is a queer psychiatrist, 

prison/police abolitionist, and founder of Uncaged Minds, a mental health 

and wellness resource for low-resourced Detroiters with neurodivergent 

conditions and marginalized identities. Her work has been published in leftist 

and mental health journals, poetry anthologies, and Slate Magazine. Her first 

chapbook, “Odes to Floating,” is set to be published by Finishing Line Press 

this year. She lives in Detroit. 

Chuck Etheridge is a self-proclaimed desert rat, raised in El Paso, Texas. He 

joined the Navy and later attended UT El Paso and TCU, working as an actor, 

convenience store clerk, Rent-a-Poet, and catalog copywriter before finding 

semi-respectable employment at Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi. His 

poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction have been published in a variety of 

reviews and books, two of his plays have been produced, and he is the author 

of three novels. 

Learn more at www.chucketheridge.com. 

Anel I. Flores, author of forthcoming book, Cortinas de Lluvia, and book and 

play, Empanada: A Lesbiana Story en Probaditas, holds an MFA in Creative 

Writing. Her work oscillates between the disciplines of visual, literary and 

multidisciplinary art, and can be found in Camino Real, Fifth Wednesday, 

RiverSedge Journal, Entre Guadalupe y Malinche, Rooted, Sinister Wisdom, 

Raspa Magazine, and exhibited at the McNay Art Museum, La Peña, Tex Pop 

Museum, Centro de Artes, Esperanza y mas. Her awards include Catalyst for 

Change, Best Poet, Women’s Advocate of the Year, Nebrija Creadores Award, 

Best SA Author, Chingona in Literature, Ancinas Award at Squaw Valley, 

the NALAC Fund, Accion Women Inspiring Women, the Yellow Rose of 

Texas Educator Award, and the Mentorship Leadership Award. Her current 

affiliations include: founder of La Otra Taller Nepantla Residency, Queer 

Voices, Tierrita Grande, and member of LGBTQ+ Mayor’s Council. She 

previously served as Co-Reviewer at SSGA Conference, Board Member at 

Macondo, The Esperanza, SAYL, PrideSA, LezRideSA and Our Lady of the 

Lake University Writer-in-Residence. Currently she is at work on her Graphic, 

Memoir Pintada de Rojo, and art series, Cortina de Estrellas.


Shannon Frost Greenstein (she/her) resides in Philadelphia with her 

children and soulmate. She is the author of “These Are a Few of My 

Least Favorite Things”, a full-length book of poetry available from Really 

Serious Literature, and “Pray for Us Sinners,” a short story collection with 

Alien Buddha Press. Shannon is a former Ph.D. candidate in Continental 

Philosophy and a multi-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has appeared, 

or is forthcoming, in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Pithead Chapel, Litro 

Mag, Bending Genres, Parentheses Journal, and elsewhere. 

Follow Shannon at shannonfrostgreenstein.com or on Twitter at @ 

ShannonFrostGre. 

Dustin Marley Hackfeld is pursuing a B.A. in Literary Studies at Texas A&M 

University-Corpus Christi. His haiku have been published in Frogpond, The 

Heron’s Nest, tinywords, and tsuri-doro. He is currently working on a chapbook, 

The Deep Line, wherein he seeks to render into organically poetic forms the 

myriad manifestations of creative energy surging through all existence. He 

lives in Ingleside, Texas with his wife, daughter, two dogs, and cat. 

John Haymaker is a LGBTQIA+ writer whose stories and nonfiction appear 

in various online journals, including Quibble Lit, The Bookends Review, Hawaii 

Pacific Review, Piker Press, Cosmic Double and Across the Margin. Chinese to 

English translations appear online at Bewildering Stories. John writes as an 

American expat in Portugal, where he lives with his partner of 28 years. 

Find John online at https://johnhaymaker.com. 

My name is Corey Johnson, and I’m currently an online business student 

and full-time youth prevention specialist. I began reading slam poetry in my 

junior year of highschool in St. Louis, Missouri. I’ve faced plenty of adversity 

in my life: being a Black & Queer person growing up in a White & Christian 

household, going through self-harm and dealing with addiction in my family. 

I wanted to share what I was going through so I was no longer alone, so I 

wrote about my own life. Doing this helped me realize that sharing my life’s 

experiences was helping other people share their stories as marginalized 

people and people coping with mental health challenges. 

Kelly Jones is a high school English teacher and graduate student at Texas 

A&M Corpus Christi pursuing a master’s degree in English: I have an 

interest in affect theory when looking at the relationship between reading


literature and creating original written pieces. While I have been teaching 

English Language Arts for nearly a decade, I am a fairly new writer who has 

only recently been inspired to pursue my craft after signing up for a Creative 

Writing course given by the lovely Dr. Carstensen. For this inspiration, I will 

be forever grateful. 

Shikha S. Lamba is a jewelry designer and poet living in Hong Kong. She 

is also the co-editor of an online magazine, Coffee and Conversations. In love 

with all things creative, she has contributed poetry for various publications 

in Hong Kong, US, the UK and India over the years. Passionate about 

raising awareness about women’s health and mental health issues through 

her writing, Shikha’s poems often touch on themes of feminism and social 

injustice. She admittedly lives a big portion of her life online and can be found 

on most social media sites for her writing, jewelry and magazine. 

Twitter - https://twitter.com/shikhaslamba 

Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/shikhaslambapoetry/ 

Jayne-Marie Linguist (she/her/hers) received her BA in English and 

Writing for Nonprofits Certification from Texas A&M University-Corpus 

Christi in May 2021; she has recently returned to TAMU-CC and is currently 

a graduate student in the MA English program. Throughout high school 

and college, Jayne-Marie grew to love poetry as a tool for self-reflection and 

healing. She often writes about her experiences with grief, mental health, 

queerness, and fat positivity. Most recently, Jayne-Marie is working on a 

creative nonfiction and poetry hybrid project about her experience living 

as a fat queer person. In addition to creative writing, Jayne-Marie’s research 

interests are in the fields of Fat Studies, Queer Theory, and Disability Studies. 

In her free time, Jayne-Marie enjoys going to the beach, streaming cozy games 

on Twitch, and cuddling with her cat Poe M. 

Ash Miller currently resides in San Antonio after spending over two decades 

growing up along the Coastal Bend. Their writing ranges from the absurd to 

the sincere. They love to explore storytelling in different mediums, from the 

written word to creating interactive text-based games. While achieving their 

Bachelor of Arts in English and minor in Creative Writing at Texas A&M 

University-Corpus Christi, they also served as Associate Editor of Creative 

Nonfiction for The Windward Review. Their poetry and short stories can also 

be found in Survivor Lit, The Windward Review, and Switchgrass Review.


Tom Murphy was the 2021-2022 Corpus Christi Poet Laureate and the 

Langdon Review’s 2022 Writer-In-Residence. Murphy’s books: When I Wear 

Bob Kaufman’s Eyes (2022), Snake Woman Moon (2021), Pearl (2020), 

American History (2017), and co-edited Stone Renga (2017). He’s been 

published widely in literary journals and anthologies such as: Poetry is DEAD: 

An Inclusive Anthology of Deadhead Poetry, Boundless, Concho River Review, 

MONO, Good Cop/Bad Cop Anthology, Odes and Elegies: Eco-Poetry from the 

Texas Gulf Coast, The Great American Wise Ass Poetry Anthology, Outrage: A 

Protest Anthology for Injustice in a Post 9/11 World among other publications. 

Find Tom online at: http://tommurphywriter.com 

Adesiyan Oluwapelumi, TPC XI,(he/him) is an African poet from Osun 

State, Nigeria. He was the winner of the Cheshire White Ribbon Day Creative 

Competition (2022) and a finalist in the WeNaija Literary Contest(2023). 

Some of his poems are published/forthcoming in Poet Lore, West Trade 

Review, Poetry Column-NND, Tab Journal, Poetry Wales and elsewhere. 

Email: pelumiadesiyan@gmail.com 

Celeste Oster is a compulsive taker of classes, lover of odd words, and maker 

of hand bound books. Her poems have appeared in a variety of journals, 

including Tiny Frights, Thorny Locust, The Muleskinner Journal, Bluepepper, 

The Kansas City Star, The Mid-American Poetry Review, and the Same. She 

lives in Kansas. 

Andrea Perez is a native of Corpus Christi, TX and a Veteran of the United 

States Army. Poetry is a positive creative outlet to aid in her PTSD and 

anxiety, especially after the untimely death of her dog MAX. Andrea strives to 

share her life experiences and stories in hopes to create a positive message for 

all to enjoy. 

Christina E. Petrides taught English on Jeju Island, South Korea, from 2017 

through 2023. Her verse collection is On Unfirm Terrain (Kelsay Books, 

2022). Her children’s books are Blueberry Man (2020; Korean translation, 

2021), The Refrigerator Ghost (Korean translation, 2022), Tea Cakes, Quilts, 

and Sonshine (2022) and Mr. Fisher’s Whiskers (forthcoming). She is the 

primary translator of Maria Shelyakhovskaya’s memoir, Being Grounded in 

Love: A History of One Russian Family, 1872-1981 (Slavica, June 2023). 

Her website is: www.christinaepetrides.com


Michael Quintana is a practicing queer writer that holds an MFA in 

Fiction and Screenwriting from San Jose State University. His debut book 

of poetry The Silence Holds Us Together will be released in the Fall of 2023. 

He currently works with writers, entrepreneurs, and businesses through his 

company Script Journey for manuscript, speech, website, and brand and 

marketing development. 

To learn more about Script Journey, visit www.scriptjourney.com. 

You can also follow Michael on Instagram: @mquintana_writer. 

jo reyes-boitel is a queer Latinx poet, playwright, and scholar currently 

completing their MFA at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley while also 

teaching undergraduate creative writing courses. Their forthcoming book of 

poetry from Next Page Press will be available in November 2023. 

For more information visit joreyesboitel.com. 

Phyllis Rittner writes poetry, flash fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work 

can be found in Burnt Breakfast, Roi Faineant Press, Paper Dragon, Versification, 

Fairfield Scribes, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review and others. She is the 

winner of the Grub Street Free Press Fiction Contest and a member of The 

Charles River Writing Collective. 

She can be reached on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/phyllis. 

rittner 

Jennifer McKeen Rodrigues (she/her) currently lives on Powhatan land in 

Fairfax, VA. She is trained as a certified yoga therapist, is a mom & military 

spouse. She has been published as either poet or photographer in tinyfrights, 

The Muleskinner Journal, Amethyst Review, The Martello Journal, & Bluepepper. 

She wishes to thank Not-the-Rodeo poets for their unconditional support. 

Alexander Rodriguez: I’m an Art Major at TAMUCC that started painting 

and sketching in the middle of the pandemic. I found art to be therapeutic 

in helping me deal with PTSD and Depression. All my artwork can be found 

on my Instagram page @mexicanbobross and some additional written works 

at www.pussypopculture.com 

Odilia Galván Rodríguez, poet, writer, editor-publisher, and activist, is the 

author of seven volumes of poetry. Her latest book from FlowerSong Press 

is The Color of Light ~ Poems to the Mexica and Orisha Energies. She is also


a co-editor, along with the late Francisco X. Alarcón, of the award-winning 

anthology Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Justice, The University of 

Arizona Press. She is a long-time social justice activist and the editor-in-chief 

and publisher at Prickly Pear Publishing & Nopalli Press. Additionally, she has 

worked as the editor for several magazines, including Tricontinental Magazine 

in Havana, Cuba, Switchgrass Review, Corpus Christi, and online – Cloud 

Women’s Quarterly Journal and Anacua Literary Arts Journal. 

Cheyenne Sanchez I am a graduate student of English at Texas A&M 

University - Corpus Christi. My pronouns are she/her/they/them. My 

favorite writing genres are creative nonfiction, literary journalism, poetry, 

and hybrid work. I tend to write about subjects such as being intersectional, 

poverty, travel, wandering, and childhood among other things. I hope to 

become an established writer or journalist, possibly taking on a second 

master’s degree in humanities, journalism, or an interdisciplinary major. This 

poem was composed in response to the abolishment of Roe v. Wade in 2022. 

Steph Schultz resides in San Antonio after traveling about the country as 

a recovering military brat. Their writing seeks to explore connections with 

their family ties, toeing the threshold between worlds and understand what it 

means to be a queer mixed-race Asian American in a cis world. Additionally, 

their work reflects their experience as a licensed counselor seeing everyone 

ranging from those who live in gated neighborhoods to those who live 

outside under highway ramps. 

Email: m2cks2@gmail.com 

Trae Stewart is an emerging queer poet and psychiatric-mental health nurse 

practitioner. He writes poetry to center and ground himself so that he may 

best help others. Trae’s poetry has been recently featured in San Antonio 

Review, Aurum Journal, orangepeel, Tabula Rasa Review, and Survive & Thrive. 

He is also a widely published academic researcher and seasoned educator. 

Chloe Tilley is an English major studying writing and literature at Texas 

A&M University-Corpus Christi. She is a Corpus Christi native and was 

born on July 31, 1999. Ever since she was little, she had a love for reading and 

writing, and by the time she reached middle school, she knew she wanted to 

be a writer. This piece, “A Kitchen Witch’s Recipe,” showcases Chloe’s journey 

to self-love and body positivity/neutrality. It is in the form of a hermit crab


essay and borrows the format of a recipe. Chloe hopes that this poem can 

encourage other BIPOC, especially women of color, to embrace themselves 

and expel white beauty standards from their conscious and subconscious. 

I’m Chase West, a traveler, an animal lover, a men’s fashion addict, a full time 

car dad, & in my day dreams a bit of a writer. This piece is near and dear to 

me and is a mirror image (no pun intended) of the trials and tribulations one 

finds on the road to self love.

SGRV6.5: Switchgrass Review 2023 Volume 6 - Radical Body Love

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