Disasterrific : Alyssa Yankwitt

Alyssa Yankwitt is a poet, photographer, teacher, bartender, documenter, and earth walker. Her poems and photographs have previously appeared in Fruita Pulp, Gingerbread House, Penwheel.lit, Metaphor Magazine, Red Paint Hill’s “Mother Is a Verb” anthology, The Lake, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Spry Literary Journal. Alyssa has incurable wanderlust, enjoys drinking whiskey, hates writing about … Continue reading Disasterrific : Alyssa Yankwitt

Grundy County

  This is weed country. Not sticky pocketfuls of buds; the lush pot fields have just been burned by the Feds in a fit of irony. Besides, the locals brew up stronger kinds of numb. These are the kinds of weeds that would shoot out of sidewalk cracks if this town could finance public sidewalks, … Continue reading Grundy County

Moth Queen

Filthy soil kisses, little mushroom people slept dreaming — not of large cream eyes folded, cork-stopped inside bottle. The wings fluttered like tangled ribbon, pushed against the moon’s luminous glowing, drowning in light-air. Prisoner Queen of Moths learned to love the smooth glass, curved against her back as cuddling, the stories she told the echoing … Continue reading Moth Queen

War for Dinner

             ~After “Photograph of the Girl,” Sharon Olds War is redefined as the city breaks. Death is a news flash. Destruction, a televised event. The privileged flip and pan. Loose propaganda is gold they recite at dinner. Here: young girls shift and reach for less food across the dinner table. The men argue and the … Continue reading War for Dinner


A scene at the dinner table, imaginary rice bowls       clanking clanking clanking till all the chopsticks break to       pierce every fixated white eye A chance to maim any claim to malleability, out       now, get out now A splinter cracks wide open       the fat ceramic, red blood on white, bleeding sensation of       fate in your gut … Continue reading ACQUAINTED


I called him a pussy because it was the weakest place that I could find;   it yielded the     easiest beneath the razor of a fifteen year old tongue.   “Four years my senior and still a virgin,“   He stood in front of me, fragile and half-naked; I laughed.                There are girls out … Continue reading Date-Rape