by Shelly Wozniak Flexing like a man, I attempt to remove a ring from a hand swollen with excess fluid, marking a cycle giving life, serving as a reminder that I am a woman. She wants me, but not my structure. Closing praying eyes she creates me from a rib – removing my breasts, the shape of my hips, giving me biceps I have no use for. We are daughters of Eve from different trees. Hers, tall and in the sun, mine, absent an Adam, flourishing in indirect light. We take in heat, and grow from water. Two similar compounds differing in an element, combustible, burning, attempting through reconstruction to…

by Shelly Wozniak Piece by piece he took her apart, leaving only one letter of her name hidden above his signature. Nose of a pig, eyes that cannot possibly see, the convolution of her contour flattened by his hand to a pointless stroke. Her mangled chest and hips, reversed, reassembled to something easily understood. Resemblance more than real, he would say, compelled him to fracture the female. She has become a conversation piece, stripped down to the period. If her mouth were in the proper place I am sure she would scream.

by Patricia Pierce Graying clouds grow spindly wisps, highlighting the city’s twilight. Whispering wind, that only I can hear, severs memories of your voice. I pace, alone, where cobwebs dangle from unlit light poles. My spine shivers, cold. Summer heat rises from the pavement. My lungs pant for breath. The ever-present fear of sleep claws at my eyes, forbids me from glancing backward. Future forever the same: Days and nights without you. Darkness resides in my soul, promises of peace, no more.

by Patricia Pierce Today is one of those days I trek to your final spot, Near the bend in the highway, Where the curb and the light pole Bear chipped scars. I lay my head against your hand-hewn cross. Fingers dig into the moist soil, Unable to forget the night of your death, My sobs soak into nearby sprigs of green. I flip through Harley magazines That show black leather and tell stories, Watch the pictures and captions blue into you. Today is one of those days I feel the familiar flush of love and loss. Today is one of those days I miss you all over again.

by Allen Ginnett I met J. Stalin. Do you know who Stalin is? A West Oakland rapper; he rapped with the Jacka. But let me tell you how I started listening to Stalin, once upon a time in East Anchorage. When I got back to Alaska from junior college and a failed music video experiment, life started taking a different route. Mobbin’ E.A., blowin’ kush, slappin’ music is what I’m talking about. I laughed when I first heard about J. Stalin. Who is this rapper with generic, ghetto name? My friend, P, first put me on Stalin. Me and J. Miz was mobbin’ heavy to that Gas Nation and Prenuptial…

by Patricia Pierce Arrived broken, I thrive now, a transplant, a sourdough. Thirty-one years after the Last Frontier stole my heart, Nowhere else fills that space. Released into the wild, I, like salmon, swim away. Disappearing into the depths of rural Alaska, I decorate the outhouse with postcards; Haul water; split wood; I grow. Mountains, like the North Star, guide my travel. Beyond roads, onto islands, into tundra. Adventures outnumber adversities. Memories of each I respect. Slowly, I heal, accept mistakes, and embrace my scars. With family few and friends plenty, I am proud to have survived a place most unforgiving. Ripples from glacial waterways rush my fingertips; Northern Lights illuminate…

by Allen Ginnett Fur Rondy, Fur Rondy, Why must I go? Is it to show… This “blissful” life we live in the snow? Is it the determination of human beings To be right at home in the cold? No. The rickety carnival rides light up like a beacon, People, downtown, in the cold for no reason. Everyone knows that this is the season, The time to come face to face with the elitist. Jesus. Save these dogs from an inhumane ritual… A tradition who’s mission is habitual, No one seems to have an issue, though. Fur Rondy, Why must I pretend to like you? The answer is I’m Alaskan, just…

by Emily Garlock Sitting in anticipation, waiting to take off to places I’ve never been, the rain drips outside my window, leaving streaks on the glass. The plane stirs, the rain blowing against its side, slowly. And as we go faster the drops collect like shooting stars, trailing faster and faster. A show for my eyes alone. The plane ascends and the stars fade, peeling off the pane, leaving a dark sky, and the reflection of a girl waiting to be swept away too.

by Emily Garlock I hit the ground with a scratch, followed by a smooth glide. The moonlight guides me. I memorize the cracks, Calculate avoidance. Once on solid surface, I twirl like the needle of a compass. To the foot or brain I am a metal blade; but the ice shows the magic I’ve created: art that will disappear behind the next snowfall, art that exists only for now.