You say there is nothing as beautiful as the dry cracking,
the callus of a hard day’s work. My hands speak back through
creases, the folds you bury your face in. Every sound
pressuring flesh like a magnet, breaking skin, snapping
a rib that no longer carries current. I dive to
beat myself at the bottom. I comb
my hair strands with useful fingers. Anguilliform means
resembling an eel— nothing beautiful—
this slimy new ocean, this dark fertile magic, the scaleless serpent
air is all wrong here.
In this 28th edition of Waccamaw, the Nigerian poet Fasasi Abdulrosheed Oladipupo unpacks the meaning…
[wc_row] [wc_column size="one-half" position="first"] Editorial Team Nonfiction Editor: Amy Singleton Poetry Editor: Brittany Davis Poetry…
The S.C. Creative Sociology Writing Competition invited undergraduate and graduate students from any discipline in…
Museum: a depository of grief displayed aesthetically; I carry the mishaps of things I want…
we say the knife is dead, or the mouth of the knife is dead because…
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