Naked and Fallen
Jenna Citrus

Through Process
Emily Plummer

The Annex
Casey Burke

Tearing at Sores
Regis Louis

The Birth of Our Names
Tesneem Madani

Untitled No. 4
Sarah Kronz

Our Condition
Troy Neptune

On the Fundamentals of Art and the Soul
Ayla Maisey

In the Foreground
Aree Rachel Coltharp

Of a Woman
Jackie Vega

Winafret Casto

The Seventeen Seconds of Odette
Rachel Lietzow

Hidden in Sight
Jenna Citrus

Casandra Robledo

The Passage
Liam Trumble

Resentment as a Kind of Relief
Eric Kubacki

Beauty Standards
Sarah Kronz

Over the Kanawha
Claire Shanholtzer

Anne Livingston

Sponsorships & Acknowledgements

For Empty Spaces
Regis Louis

Liam Trumble

Culled from the Flock
Deborah Rocheleau

Searching for Divinity
Madeleine Richey

From Pillars to Dust
Madeleine Richey

As Best I Could Do
Hoda Fakhari

In Your Absence
Emma Croushore

Sarah Kronz

The Shadow of Paris
Anika Maiberger

The Liffey
Kara Wellman

Memories of Home
Audrey Lee

Jackie Vega

The Beauty in Fracturing
Taylor Woosley

Butcher Paper
Casandra Robledo

Human Scavenger
Devin Prasatek

Babel Was a Second Eden
Luke McCusker

The Painting in Gallery 26
Sydney Crago

Sofia Io Celli

Ayla Maisey




I braid dirt roads into my hair
while her eyes linger on
the fence. Our heels resting
on the edge of the riverbed,
“Aqui no hay dolor, mija.”
We watch as white doves float
into the blurry heat, their
bodies silently fading into light

They never come back again.

Until the stained glass fractures
across my throat, I won’t breathe.
Oh Dios, I won’t breathe. I watch
as my nails get blacker by the day.
She showed me how to peel fruit
correctly, so I take all of them
one skin at a time, vein by vein,
a resurrection.

It’s like this—home is where
you are when your eyes are
closed. The nights here are lurid;
guns force a song into our
It wants blood: it wants sinew
and white-toed communion.
There is no release until
the morning shivers out from
underneath the stars. Once,
I offered our husks to the alley
dogs and watched as they
swallowed them whole: we are
no longer prophets. My home
is here, this throat of a sky.
And hers is a garland of agave
flowers, eternally blooming,
coiled under her nail beds.


About The Author

Casandra Robledo is a sophomore pre-nursing student at the University of Illinois at Chicago. When she is not writing poetry, she volunteers for a number of student organizations on campus. She has an avid interest in photography, and she likes her coffee with extra sugar. Her work has been published in the Red Shoes Review and the 2015 issue of Brainchild.