F WORD VOL. X

VOL. X NOVEMBER 2018 CONTENT warning: SEE TABLE OF CONTENTS

WELCOME TO Welcome to VOLUME X of F WORD, a feminist collective based in Montréal, QC. Through our publication, we aim to provide a platform for the marginalized feminist voices that are underrepresented in our community. Our notion of feminism is not limited to gender politics, but rather extends to all anti-oppressive perspectives. With this intersectional framework in mind, we aim to separate ourselves from feminisms that refute such values. We want our content to reflect these goals and to be a space where people feel safe sharing their experiences. As well as being a platform for our contributors, we hope F WORD will evolve as a community resource in Montréal and stand as a meeting place of feminists.

We are currently working to partner with other groups and organizations that share our anti-oppressive values and interests. If you or a group you are involved in would like to collaborate with F WORD, please e-mail us.

As always, we have the greatest appreciation for all of the support that we receive from our contributors, allies, and readers.

Lots of love from the collective!

F WORD seeks to explore feminism in its present-day cultural context as a unifying, anti-oppressive, intersectional force. We seek to provide an accessible community resource through inclusive, constructive multi-media content. Through our collective’s non-hierarchical structure, we aim to challenge and move away from existing systems of oppression.

EXPLORE: fwordmtl.com Connect: facebook.com/fwordmtl FOLLOW: fwordmtl.tumblr.com tweet: twitter.com/fwordmtl INSTA: instagram.com/fwordmtl CONTACT: fwordpublication@gmail.com SUBMIT: fwordmtl.com/submit

Content warning: As a feminist publication, some of the content in this zine discusses traumatic experiences. Please read the table of contents and the accompanying content warnings carefully.

F WORD acknowledges that Montreal/ McGill is on traditional Haudenosaunee or Kanien’kehá:ka land

BIENVENUE à Nous avons le plaisir de vous présenter le dixième publication de F WORD, un collectif fondé à Montréal. À travers nos publications, nous nous sommes donné pour mandat de fournir une plateforme aux féministes marginalisé(e) s qui sont sous-représenté(e)s dans notre communauté. Notre vision du féminisme ne se limite pas à l’aspect politique, mais s’étend plutôt à toutes les perspectives anti-oppressives. Dans ce cadre multidimensionnel, nous visons à nous dissocier des féminismes qui rejettent de telles valeurs. Nous voulons que le contenu de nos publications reflète ces objectifs et assure un espace accueillant où toute personne puisse se sentir à l’aise de partager ses expériences. En plus d’être une plateforme pour nos contributeurs et contributrices, nous espérons que F WORD évoluera en tant que communauté ressource à Montréal et pourra servir de lieu de rencontre pour les féministes.

Nous tentons présentement de nous associer avec d’autres groupes ou organisations qui partagent nos valeurs et intérêts anti-oppressifs. Si vous ou un groupe dont vous faite partie souhaite collaborer avec F WORD, n’hésitez pas a nous contacter par e-mail.

Comme toujours, nous apprécions énormément tout le soutien que nous recevons de nos contributeurs et contributrices, allié(e)s et lecteurs et lectrices.

Nous vous envoyons plein d’amour de la part du collectif!

F WORD cherche à explorer le Féminisme dans son contexte culturel actuel, en tant que force intersectionnelle, anti-oppressive, et unifiante. Nous voulons créer une ressource communautaire accessible grâce à un contenu multimédia inclusif et constructif. Grâce à une structure non hiérarchisée au sein de notre collectif, nous désirons nous distancer des systèmes d’oppression existants.

EXPLOREr: fwordmtl.com Connecter: facebook.com/fwordmtl nous suivre: fwordmtl.tumblr.com tweet: twitter.com/fwordmtl INSTA: instagram.com/fwordmtl nous joindre: fwordpublication@gmail.com Soumettre: fwordmtl.com/submit

Avertissement sur le contenu: En tant que publication féministe, certains éléments dans le contenu de ce magazine font référence à des évènements traumatisants. Veuillez lire la table des matières et les avertissements attentivement.

F WORD reconnaît que Montreal/McGill fait partie du territoire traditionel Haudenosaunee ou Kanien'kehá:ka.

Table of Contents untitled by Natalie Olivares .................................................................................

1

bitchin’ by Phoebe Fisher.....................................................................................

2

not your housewife of Montreal by Natalie Olivares...............................................

3

WINDEX by Aubrey Nash it’s really over by Xander Macaulay-Rettino...........................................................

4

Weight of Expectation by Alicia Fair (cw: eating disorder, body image) Paper and Plastic by Phoebe Fisher (cw: death).................................................... 5 On observe l’oiseau by Amaïa Pelletier She blooms by Cygneau.........................................................................................

6

image1 by Hosanna Galea ...................................................................................

7

I Am Not a Pretty Box by Laurence Guysinger (cw: assault / coercion) In the Light 2 by Tia Goodhand ...........................................................................

8

No More Missing. No More Murdered. 1 and 2 by Ellie Willock .............................

9-10

Hometown Gold 1 Hometown Gold 3 by Olivia du Vergier..................................................................

11

Swamp Irises by Ilona Martonfi (cw: suicide) no falling in love by Xander Macaulay-Rettino.......................................................

12

look to the right

13-14

look to the left by Jordanna Gisser ......................................

salt + vinegar by Xander Macaulay-Rettino (cw: graphic sexual content, mentions of suicide, mental health institution and religion, sexual assault).......................... 15 GOSSIPS by Cygneau (cw: internalized sexism, misogyny, cat-calling, slut-shaming, objectification)..............................................................................................

16

Mom by Lulu Lebowitz Mother by Jordanna Gisser .................................................................................

17

Likeness by Kaylina Kodlick.................................................................................. 18 not “your girl” by Wisaal Jahangir Peau de plâtre by Ève-Marie Marceau (tw: violence, body image)........................... 19 Over It All by Abby Couture................................................................................... 20 Untitled by Lulu Lebowitz the thing about faith healing by Xander Macaulay-Rettino (cw: religious content)

21

maybe one day I’ll be good at metaphors by Nicole Chrenek (tw: self-harm, alcohol, drug use) ........................................................................

22

Skin and Kin by Loretta St. Laurent (cw: religion)..................................................... 23 Green Orb by Lulu Lebowitz ................................................................................

24

Last Elegy by Maya Keshav Blues by Lulu Lebowitz ........................................................................................

25

colour theory by Xander Macaulay-Rettino (cw: allusion to eating disorder) colorful by Lea Papillon .......................................................................................

26

Celebrate Her by Aquil Virani................................................................................ 27 Front cover: L’etoile by Élise Desbarats Back cover: self love by Lea Papillon

Meet the artists Aubrey Nash is, in no particular order, a graduate student at McGill University, a lover of rain, a residential care aide, a Squamish local, a writer, a cat parent, an enthusiastic doodle artist, and a vegetarian who sometimes eats fish.

Maya Keshav is a McGill alum (BA ‘18) now studying language, gender, and sexuality at UC Santa Barbara.

Xander Macaulay-Rettino is a soft thing trying to wrap itself in other softnesses. They are also a poet + interdisciplinary artist living in Tiohtià:ke (Montréal).

They can be found in all their queer/trans/disabled truth on twitter @xanwriteswords and on instagram @xxaneggs Ilona Martonfi is an Editor, Poet, Creative Writing teacher. Author of three poetry books, Blue Poppy (Coracle, 2009.) Black Grass (Broken Rules, 2012).

The Snow Kimono (Inanna Publications, 2015).

Writes in chapbooks, anthologies and magazines.

Arts director of The Yellow Door and Visual Arts Centre Readings. QWF 2010 Community Award.

Phoebe Fisher - I’m a first year at McGill, studying history and sociology. I am also very excited to be part of F WORD Vol. X! Shouts-out to the F WORD staff and to all the other writers and artists creating dope things! Ève-Marie Marceau - I’m a first year student at McGill, majoring in sociology and minoring in Études et pratiques littéraires françaises. I use to write, especially in French as it is my native tongue, and I am fond of arts in all its forms.

Wisaal Jahangir is a first year student at McGill, trying to navigate a major in Cognitive Science, this beautiful city, and herself. She can be found on Instagram at @wisaal_.

Nicole Chrenek is an undergrad English student at McGill from Grande Prairie, Alberta. Her writing (when she writes, which isn’t often) mostly centers mental illness and the pains of general existence.

Someone on twitter once described her as “absolutely disgusting” and “one of the reasons why the human race is going to shit”. She likes cornbread and the cat that keeps visiting her apartment.

Amaïa Jeanne Pelletier is a U1 student in the faculty of education at McGill. Outspoken and hyper-active, she is especially recognizable by her pastel outfits, loud voice, and love for all the life that surrounds her.

Aquil Virani - Awarded as the “Artist For Peace 2018” by the Quebec-based artist collective “ Les artistes pour la paix,” Aquil Virani is a visual artist, filmmaker, and McGill alumnus who integrates public participation into his socially-conscious art projects.

CelebrateHer, a large-scale portrait series and feminist sound play created in collaboration with Imago Theatre, can be viewed at celebrateher.ca. To learn more about the artist, visit aquil.ca.

Lulu Lebowitz is a student at McGill University in Montréal. She cares deeply about her history degree and her film photography. She is from Northern California and takes most of her pictures there. Élise Desbarats is a psychology and behavioural science student at McGill, who’s work includes graphic design, street art, paintings, sculpture and digital work. Much of their work revolves around trying to produce art whilst doing an un-artsy degree, drawing inspiration from brain anatomy textbooks, biological structures and mythology. They can be found at @ taigapine on Instagram.

Ellie Willock studies geography at McGill University where she writes for The McGill Daily. Originally from Vancouver, B.C., Ellie is an advocate for social justice and can be found at protests around Montreal.

Cygneau is a French literature major and a conceptual artist based in Montréal. In her free time she attempts to read Antonin Artaud’s Complete Works, dances to bossa nova songs and writes poetry. She can be found on Instagram @cygneau.

Tia Goodhand is a photographer and poet from Montreal. She finds inspiration scribbling notes in cafés, her papers often stained with matcha tea and smeared indigo ink. Whenever Elton John’s Tiny Dancer plays she can’t help but twirl unapologetically belting out the words. She is currently in her third year of teaching English as a second language at McGill and is ready to jump on a plane to teach abroad as soon as she graduates.

Natalie Olivares is a queer photographer, light lover, and tea enthusiast. When she isn’t three weeks behind on readings for university, you may find her petting puppies, harvesting tomatoes from her backyard, or trying to fight against the fascist American government while thriving in nearby Montreal!

Alicia Fair has no art degrees, awards, or any significant experience to speak of. What she does have is her story and the stories of those around her, stories she chooses to express through art in whatever capacity she is able to do so. Through making collages in kindergarten, watching YouTube videos, and coloring outside the lines, she has been able to arrive at a point where her art is communicative and evocative of what cannot be said in words alone.

Jordanna Gisser Is an undergraduate student at McGill studying Anthropology and Social Studies of Medicine. Strongly interested in exploring the power of the image, art, and ruptures as a way of transcending/playing with the systems we are entrenched in, she conveys meaning and experience through texture and breath. In an attempt to bring the static alive, she embraces the women from within her life that embody strength, femininity, and sensuality.

Struggling with her own temporality and balance, she finds relief and joy in reliving vines, 70’s disco hits, vegan broccoli and cheddar soup, and backpacking for months on end.

Bitchin’ I just sat in a classroom For one hundred minutes, Exactly.

Legs crossed, Hands raised, Ask politely if you can speak.

Don’t interrupt.

Manners taught in preschool Run through my breathe, If I open my mouth at all.

So I raise it to twelve at the stop sign.

I pass my classmates I always keep the windows up I pass my classmates They have no idea.

My car fills with an invisible smoke, A vapor of excellence And divine femininity.

No bells ring, But we are excused.

I walk to my car alone.

My little titties and my phat belly PHAT Princess Nokia’s voice fills me.

I get in I sing along, feeling release.

And I am suddenly in a room My body is beautiful by myself.

And soft and loving and Once I close the door, strong.

I own that space.

I fill spaces.

Four walls.

So make the space.

My own energy.

My body won’t reshape for Four walls. efficiency It keeps growing like it’s meant I breathe. to It has a plan The aux is always on.

It intends to stick to.

Spotify playlist, My Tunes: Bitchin’ Edition.

All the sounds aggressively More through the aux cord.

Music starts blasting.

Turn the knob up past the five scale of my morning, The calm before the storm.

It is my time to release.

Put that shit up to ten!

Ms. Lauryn Hill comes on Doo Wop That Thingggg

You see, My body is a bitch As in it keeps blooming in health and love.

I like connecting with my body entirely And feeling what it is capable of, And I’m not standing up straight anymore.

I bend my knees, I lean into my curves, And my curves lean back Into me.

My body contortions are stylized and bitchy, As in there is revolution in the beat I keep.

So call me a bitch And call us all Bitches.

We feed off it.

We make art from it.

We identify with it.

We love every femme who’s called it And every reason they were called it.

Our loud voices make history.

Bitches make rap and song, Lyrics and screeches.

Anthems and speeches.

And if saying all this makes me “a bitch”...

Then I’ll proudly join Nitty and Noname In her hips I feel the revolution Tigre and Junglepussy Bikini Kill makes me start Lizzo and Eryka. dancing in my seat.

My bumps and grinds I found power Are not for your pleasure, In our loud, unBut my form of expression. apologetic duets.

untitled

not your housewife of montreal

IT’S REALLY OVER it took a while to make impact for you at least i’d been nursing wounds since last winter your hands flew across an ocean to fill themselves with me you brought nothing in return i think i knew then i think i knew before that now fall is creeping like decaying calendar page paper is falling and i am calling to tell you your hands took more than their fill it took a while to make impact i am the ex girlfriend weeping on the other ex girlfriend’s floor like dog who crossed the street badly the rain tries to put me out of my misery a blanket over my breath i am swallowing hard silence and then you “so it’s really over” your throat catches like hangnail on synthetic silk i think what i thought every day dousing our bodies in oil rubbing away the stubborn adhesive

WINDEX

this has been over for a long long time you’re just catching up. like a truck and a sudden stop.

I wrote a poem on my mirror in the dark red lipstick you wore the night I didn’t expect

as you opened the door in

tight merlot dress, black lacy bra

teasing overtop and I thought how

your smile clashed with the dress and

wondered if you inhabited

life’s carved woman or

an etched icon of what you want of me

then you kissed me hello and danced ugly.

(Raphael softened my face

with linseed instilled oil paint:

Two painted ladies.) but as I tried to take a photo of the words I couldn’t get a shot without me staring back, frozen immemorial— your lips written across my face.

Paper and Plastic I apologize that I cannot exist today But being in control of time Has its downfalls Because i don’t always use it responsibly.

When I stop my world, I don’t care that yours is still turning.

And I don’t care that your clock is still ticking.

I admit I covered my ears And hummed loudly instead.

I’m sorry that I gave these walls consent to consume me But sometimes I need to be consumed by bigger things.

It’s exhausting to live on a micro-level.

But when I’m in a paper bag, the plastic can’t get to me And I’m sorry if that means you can’t either But there are worse things than plastic.

Things that don’t rip under pressure.

And I’m sorry Because they come before you.

weight of expectations

on observe l’oiseau La scène se passe à la terrasse d’un café. Une jeune femme, le visage mangé par des lunettes de soleil bien trop grandes.

Une cigarette a la main, une menthe a l’eau sur la table. La caméra se rapproche et l’on voit donc son visage en face. Comme si elle nous avait remarqué, elle enleve ses lunettes.

Derrière elles se cachaient des yeux qui nous donneraient envie de nager dedans. Bleus comme l’océan, nous sommes pénétrés par ce regard qui semble vouloir dire tant de choses. Jouant sur son pouvoir envers son public, elle hausse légèrement les coins de sa bouche et esquisse alors un léger sourire.

Elle prend une longue inspiration de sa cigarette, expire la fumée droit sur nous.

pouvons plus alors compter les taches de rousseur dansant sur son nez.

Elle leve les yeux. On s’interroge une fois encore si elle nous voit ou pas. Lorsqu’un éclatant air de surprise se place envers son visage, nous suivons son regard. Un homme se tient, un jeune garçon. Elle a les larmes aux yeux. Nous somme émus par l’air autour de nous, emplit d’une telle intimité que l’on ne souhaite que fuir. Notre propre existence paraît être un poids. On s’éloigne sous un soleil couchant.

Le dernier plan de la caméra enregistre le regard ému des deux personnes. Ils n’ont besoin de rien dire, mais aussi de tout dire.

La caméra s’éloigne légèrement et se place alors vers le profil de la jeune femme. On remarque que son oreille droite est ornée d’anneaux argentés qui scintillent délicatement, tels des timides rayons de soleils sous un ciel nuageux. Ses dents sont blanches comme si elle sortait d’une publicité pour dentifrice, mais rien de sa personne n’est superficiel. Certes, elle est bien habillée, mais l’on sent qu’elle préfère passer des heures dans une librairie que dans les Galleries Lafayettes. Elle sort un livre de son sac, justement, comme si elle nous avait entendus. Intrigués, on cherche à lire le titre mais on s’aperçoit avec une certaine perplexité que la première de couverture est arrachée.

Elle murmure alors que “c’est pour faire parler les curieux”. Choqués, on se demande si l’on a imaginé cette remarque, qui pourtant semblait si naturelle, mais dite d’une voix si doucereuse que l’on aurait pu entendre lors d’un songe quelconque. Notre Lorelei baisse alors les yeux, comme si elle était engloutie par les mots défilant sur les pages jaunies de l’ouvrage qu’elle tient dans les mains.

On réalise alors que nous l’observons tel un animal en cage- pas un animal, cela serait trop grossier comme comparaison. Plutôt tel un papillon perché sur une haute fleur de lys. Cela emmene inévitablement a un certain malaise face a la situation.

Génés par cette femme qui, elle, ne semble faire aucune attention a nous, nous nous replions.

La caméra s’éloigne graduellement.

Nous sommes maintenant assez loin, et ne

she blooms

IMAGE ONE

I am Not a Pretty Box I am not a pretty box I am not a pretty box One you can fill up Tape shut And send on their way Packaging myself up tight Everytime I give something Offering up Something of myself To be taken, chewed up, spat outWrithing and bloodyA fixed amount I pay my stamped entry To the queue of collectors Until nothing is left To call my own, To continue Not my self, What is asked?

Coerced What is taken?

Used, then stamped out To be taken Lined up with the bins Forgotten for worm food A pretty box with a lovely label Easily understood, sorted A pretty box, I am not.

IN THE LIGHT

Marching for missing and murdered Indigenous women

Protestors stand vigil in Cabot Square

Hometown Gold 3

Hometown Gold 1

SWAMP IRISES Seven years, nearly eight years, I sat down on the roofless stone staircase holding the humpbacked ochre moon, you still existed the summer of magical thinking: If I don’t walk in a straight line… chalk hills of the Bavarian Forest

walled medieval nunnery orchard.

I painted watercolour on paper, rubbed it out schoolrooms, songbooks, arithmetic

Danube River reed grasses finding you Mother, upstairs by a broken chimney on the night you attempted suicide, I woke up.

I picked swamp irises, clover weeds watched grandmother boil milk on the wood stove lime washed walls, taupe grey, cotton curtains, war refugees from Budapest

we lived in Halle # 7 bombed red brick factory hangar beside an old airport runway

if I don’t walk in a straight line… pigtailed ten year old, polka dot ribbons I told you about my coloured marbles my three sisters Öcsi, little brother, apu, my father with blue ink in a lined notebook white steel hospital bed, six nuns, a bottle of sleeping pills butterfly flying through the open window

Ilona Martonfi

NO FALLING IN LOVE do not take the leaves as a sign remember they are dying you are tree with frozen roots you will last this no falling in love until snow soaks earth and sprout breaks ground and the trees are ready to be homes again until then, sing to yourself the birds have all gone south anyway

look to the right

look to the left

SALT + VINEGAR salt + vinegar chips taste like dick i can’t apologize anymore i refuse to swallow for your sake when you ask me if i like it you are easier to stomach than my “no” salt + vinegar chips leave my cheeks wet the back of my throat sharp and seizing tell me the stinging is the best part i can’t say no anymore salt + vinegar chips taste like peer pressure dissociating in a dark room with your clothes off and the way you look at me when I’m looking through you salt + vinegar in my eyes on my chest wherever you want it i don’t want it i can’t see you for the acid you’re soaked in i keep tasting you and then rubbing my eyes always coming back and cumming backward you can never have just one you can never have enough, you keep coming back my tongue sore, kissing your salt lick body vinegar sliding between my lips you tell me to spit on it salt + vinegar chips for masticating masochists taste like sparks when they touch you smell like burning threadbare lips i am cracking self between my own teeth cutting my gums & the insides of my cheeks how do i stop eating you compulsive heterosexuality like salt + vinegar chips i want so badly to be loved that i convince myself i like it what surrounds me is what i am supposed to be how I’m supposed to feel and you like salt + vinegar chips i don’t know how to know how i feel about anything i fail to filter. i exist to be filled with whatever you put in me like a womb

semen like salt + vinegar i don’t want to swallow i don’t want to go back for more but its so nice to share a snack even when its always been half empty puffed up with air like animal intimidation tactic i am taught to fear and admire. awestruck and aspiring to be the hollow space & the inside you stick to the walls for your flavour to grease you can rip me open lick yourself off my corners you empty me i am not recyclable. discarded carcass floating in a river salt + vinegar chips taste like crime scene salt + vinegar chips smell like emergency triage sour like sanitized vomit like unwashed underwear sharp steel wrapped in toilet paper tucked away the stench of strip search salt + vinegar chips the colour of isolation ward hallways taste like bloodstained hospital gowns and midnight lidocaine this should hurt shouldn’t it salt + vinegar chips crunch like failed suicide attempt you can never have just one you can never have enough you keep coming back salt of the earth, i am taught you mean creation i exist only by your grace, only to be filled with you born into your debt, my body as interest i am owed to you vinegar my mother cleans the floors & mirrors with on sunday mornings after church i still cannot see my reflection she still cannot bear my water-stains vinegar like a sponge to my crucifix lips thirsty with messiah complex sex has always tasted like sour wine and salt + vinegar chips

G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G G

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Likeness

Mom

Mother

In North Carolina, a wooden floored, musty smelling cabin bared her presence. The ordinary vibrated. She’s sitting on a faux leather couch in the right end of the living room. With feet rested upon the polyester carpet that was in a need of a cleaning, she cupped a coffee mug housing steaming black coffee in both of her hands. You could see the rings of water damage she left on the side table. Below the dim lit lamp, the oil on her nose shined, the gray hairs in her roots glistened, and her brown eyes showed sincerity. Her legs were crossed, and she was wearing sweatpants and a duran duran knockoff concert t-shirt, the kinds you buy in the parking lots of concerts. Her wedding band was slightly cutting off her circulation, but the light didn’t marry it the same way it vowed to her eyes. Her feet blanketed in fuzzy socks because she is always cold, hailed parallel to the ceiling that was cracking above. The remote was kept inside the cracks of the couch cushion, almost like it was the home everyone kept on displacing it from. Sitting still in an image that could easily go unrecognized, her hands were what struck the most. They carry home. They offer a constellation of forces no horizon could hold. Her veins were dark blue and plunging out of her fingers. Smooth and raw, the skin of her hands was where tangibility met wrinkles, utility met calluses, and living met nails with white marks from calcium deficiency. The still-life was frozen in time and lost in time simultaneously and life was lush and hell and rotten and alive. It was a feeling of nothingness and essenceness at the same time. A feeling of a static state filled with vibratory resonance.

not “your girl” i am not your source of entertainment. i am not here for when you are bored or lonely or want someone to pass the time with. i am not your “sometimes,” your “maybe,” your second choice. i am not your project, not your challenge, not your 11 pm phone call until you find someone better. i am a ring of burning fire and whole planets orbit around me. i am the way clouds look when they threaten to storm, the way sunshine feels holy when it illuminates skin, the way raindrops are inexorable in their downpour. i am a tornado, a wildfire, a tsunami. i am a force to be reckoned with. i am a cavern whose absence

you cannot fill, and i am a forest you have never explored. i am a forest you will never have the privilege nor capability to explore. i have not been surviving for eighteen years, made it through and over and into this world, for me to be your play thing. for me to be at your disposal, for me to be your object of amusement, your “i’m bored,” your “tell me something interesting” your tired tired excuses. i have the universe at my feet. if you cannot see it, if you are unaware, let me tell you: the universe will exist without you. the universe will flourish without you. i am mine, before i am ever yours, and trust me, i am not yours.

Peau de plâtre Une fesse, deux fesses juxtaposées un peu plus sorties, avale ta nausée tourne, sexy, sur le carton stérile et recolle sous ton nez ce sourire indélébile chérie attends! qu’on te démantèle serre tes hanches pour ces rasoir-dentelles surtout, fais gaffe de craquer sur la froideur de ce contre-plaqué maintenant, bouge tes lèvres pour ce baiser-torture et une, deux, trois, fracture! patience, ton chèque est seulement pour avril on va peut-être te payer avec un peu de bile d’ici-là, il faudrait mesurer ton diaphragme.

LOSERS ALWAYS WIN

LOSERS ALWAYS WIN

OVER IT ALL

THE THING ABOUT FAITH HEALING i am imagining a laying on of hands with no self-righteous pretence of Christ as cure rest your palms against all the parts of me that hurt and say you see me in all my suffering in all my bliss admit you cannot fix me admit i am enough— broken like this admit there does not have to be a Good and Holy reason and say nothing

Untitled

maybe one day I’ll be good at metaphors Self hatred is a knife that cuts deep But it eats you from the inside, like acid that courses through your veins And maybe a little bit will run out each time you make yourself bleed I don’t want to push you away and I don’t think you want to push me away either – But sometimes timing is a bitch and we both hate ourselves at the same time And nothing can ever come out of that but more fucking fire I love you and I can’t let you burn I thought you would be the taste of alcohol The burning in my throat, the bitter taste on my lips But you’re that dizzying feeling that tells me I sure fucking can do a somersault off the couch (and you bet your fucking ass I will) But I still can’t get drunk enough to get this knife out of my chest Remember that time I got so high I forgot how to breathe?

And yet somehow there you were dancing on the edge of every single one of my thoughts If we were the catholic church about 500 years ago you would be the earth and I would be the sun (Because people didn’t know how space worked back then and they thought that the universe revolved around the earth) (And they were wrong about that) (And I’m probably wrong about this too but it sure doesn’t fucking feel like it) So if I were to use another shitty metaphor I would say that you’re like those bowling ball ramps that kids use (I’d say training wheels but I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was twelve And I’d like to think you taught me something right when I needed it) Self hatred is a knife that cuts deep But sometimes you find someone who knows the same pain as you do And they make existing a little bit easier

Skin and Kin I used to talk to trees.

But now I roam these city streets And færytales are fine If you’re a færy.

But I’m a lion.

Oh, what’s a life where Man rules all, and WE are yet blamed For The Fall?

But Hah! I’ve since been taken from those woods, And clearly do I see That beauty is not shameful, As they’d led me to believe.

My body, now, I free.

I ripped the wool from off mine eyes, So caref ’lly knit by many hands, That clutched at strings with “angel wings”: A “lordly” puppeteer’s command.

But they cannot control me, No! I won’t allow it any more.

This body you see here is mine.

And if you dare call me a whore, Or fat, Or slutty, Or ugly, Or square, I do not care.

This body isn’t yours.

The coating matters not, I’ve known that since the start.

But now I’ve learned that even sans wrappers, The candy doesn’t rot.

We shouldn’t have to cover up.

(Unless, of course, that’s what WE want).

If your heart is sweet then no harm’s done If you choose to veil, Or choose to flaunt.

Don’t you dress-code me, good kin!

I’ll gladly write you chalkboard lines On the reasons you can see my skin.

I’ll need longer than detention time.

It’s beautiful. It’s human, fool!

I’m not sorry for having both body AND soul.

I ain’t sorry for not being “God-like” in school.

I’m not sorry my shoulder distracted him.

He should cover his bicep veins.

The effect is quite the same.

Yes, two can play at this game.

And don’t tell me to take off my hat.

What racist, mono-cultural bullshit is that!?!

It’s hard to think back to a home Where I did stand firm for oh so long On doctrines I deemed safe and strong.

For later, when they pushed me off, I saw that I was in the wrong.

But I learnèd that I need not lean On any hardwood crutch.

I found that I could walk alone.

I didn’t need a hand to clutch.

Hell, Who needs a Heaven in the sky?

I found that I myself could fly.

But what’s eating me whole, What I can’t forget, is: This is the home that built me.

They made me everything that I am.

Strong body, good soul, They created me whole!

I owe it all to them.

Aye, they must have done good If I comprehend The reasons I was weak and blind Behind, In that old backwoods land.

This paradox is torturous.

It scrapes me night and day.

I can’t decide if it’s all in my head.

Do I owe it to them to stay?

The raised me up, Taught me all, Yet they placed me on a pedestal.

There was only one way to be “good” in this town.

I was lucky enough to be “it” all those years.

But I don’t know if I belong here now.

And this is what drives me to tears.

And country music just isn’t as soft And as sweet As it used to be on my ears.

Yes, a year ago, I was so damn proud

Of that Redneck blood from which I came.

But now, more often do I curse This poison in my veins. ***

Hands bloody from threading machines.

No, I think the world needs strong girls, needs them fr This naive bliss is a now memory yonder: We’ve left the back forty, And we can’t go back, Lordy!

Until we’ve truly helped others grow stronger.

How can I ever reconcile My childhood dreamland, glory-lined, With the acrid one that now cuts up my brain?

I won’t be able to rest until then.

Aye, good gal, there’re the same.

And here, I’ll refrain from saying Amen.

But I’m not.

Mind you, -12/6/18 I still don’t belong on a yacht.

I would feel selfish even floating downstream On an old inner tube, “just living the dream,” While my Redneck soul lounges at ease, Ignorant and content.

And meanwhile there’s hints of smog on the breeze, And the six-year-old child that made my bikini Is currently still on her knees,

Green Orb

last elegy into my bedroom hums neighbour music,

intrusion half frothed through wall.

I am busy feeling very much

in the space where you aren’t and haven’t left an indent in the bed. now

I make early evenings, resting on a metaphor where concentric rumples

mark ripples spreading from the catastrophe of your leaving. I am indignant and not-startled at the neighbour’s indifference

to tragedy, when the only song he should be singing is ain’t no sunshine when

she’s gone. still the music foams indifferent. still there is no rhythm in absence. only persistence

and the same sour same loops of missing. bad thoughts are bedfellows as the hours

step into evening. still here still unwelcome in the morning. recurrent crackles of I must end this wallowing! I have

been too long coiled around the dimples of memory which contain you. I must make

tomorrow a genuine Saturday.

Blues

Colorful COLOUR THEORY

suddenly i was bright orange maybe it was just the contrast after falling asleep a thick Prussian blue i woke up citrus on the verge of spoil like holy oil in candlelight like streetlamp-lit summer night weighing humid heavier than expected

i was nothing i could recognize my only mirrors have faces i can only see reflections in their eyes i can never get close enough to check mine i bet them bloodshot i bet them sinking into hollow skull it’s all i am these days skeletal and shrinking with bad veins for colour

CelebrateHer

CelebrateHer is a feminist portrait series – inspired by interviews with 12 inspiring, publicly nominated women – that explores gender expectations, everyday activism and the visibility and valourization of different kinds of labour. I collaborated with playwright Erin Lindsay and Imago Theatre’s artistic director Micheline Chevrier to create an immersive installation, featuring the 12 large-scale portraits along with an accompanying audio play of these women telling their stories.

Clare Byarugaba is an amazing listener. She asks good questions. She seems willing to see the good in people. (On our day together, she chatted with this loud barista who I thought was being obnoxious and crass – the kind of guy that yells across the room and calls women he doesn’t know “sweetheart.” She was really pleasant with him.) Her demeanour might be related to the fact that she’s the only daughter in the family with 7 brothers! Living in Montreal, walking in the Village, I think it’s easy to forget the struggles of queer peoples around the world. Clare is a great example of someone who does activist work not necessarily because she’s interested in abstract human rights and “politics,” but because she’s interested in her own survival.

Cat Person

Artist Statements WINDEX, Cat Person by Aubrey Nash Both of my pieces included in this issue work with themes of identity. The way I see it, it is inevitable that identity is formed through societal engagement.

Whether I like it or not, the way others see me is carved into my skin; my identity is for public consumption. These pieces draw attention to this system of identity formation that defines/erases/ paints me.

Weight of Expectation by Alicia Fair The daily stroll and the shadow that follows.

On observe l’oiseau by Amaïa Pelletier J’ai écrit “On Observe L’Oiseau” afin d’accomplir mon désir d’écrire sur une délicatesse invisible entre deux personnes, mais surtout sur la beauté d’une femme inaccessible. Cette femme n’existe que pour elle-même, elle ne se souci.............he de personne, et pourtant réussit a bouleverser l’équilibre de tout ceux qui croisent son regard.

Le pouvoir de la femme, a ne jamais sous-estimer! image one by Hosanna Galea I learned of the arterial ventricular malformation in my corpus callosum on the day that it hemorrhaged. During the emergency surgery I then suffered a stroke, causing extreme memory loss and the numbing of half of my body.

Despite these challenges, my journey to health is a joyous experience. Having to re-learn who I was has taught me who I want to be. The flowers sent to my bedside created an oasis. When I look back on this time I remember the tropical paradise that my family and friends helped to make. The road to health has been a slow walk down a vibrant and lush path.

In the Light by Tia Goodhand There are times of the day when the sun hits just right, creating shadows that dance, that move, that tell a story. Miss the fleeting moment and it’s gone. In

Artist Statements the Light pt.1 is a digital still, part of a series of images that tell the sun’s stories.

I Am Not a Pretty Box by Laurence Guysinger For me, at first, labels were important because they helped me find a supportive community. But labels began to feel like a way to make my experience smaller, less complex, to make allow others to understand to sort me into a box. I let go of the labels to be understood as a person, not a box.

No More Missing. No More Murdered.

1 and 2 by Ellie Willock Photographs taken at the 13th annual March and Vigil for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls on October 4th.

GOSSIPS by Cygneau piece on internalized sexism - girls gossiping on girls - and the male gaze which objectifies female bodies.

Mother by Jordanna Gisser Short piece of writing inspired by Kathleen Stewart’s Ordinary Affects Likeness by Kaylina Kodlick This is an acrylic painting I’ve done of me and my mom! During my mom’s visit to Montreal this past summer (we spent over a month together and had oodles of fun) we took the photo the painting is based on. The painting celebrates our amazing summer together, our mom-daughter friendship, and also how now (in my early twenties) I’m finally kinda/sorta beginning to look like her (which has been my dream literally since birth).

Peau de plâtre by Ève-Marie Marceau Peau de plâtre has been written not necessarily to give a precise outcome, but certainly with the strong feeling that I hold against the issue of objectification, and hyper-sexualization of women’s bodies. Our body is our own and is more than beautiful, it is strong as hell

and the sculpture of all our fights.

Over It All by Abby Couture My illustrations utilize both hand drawings and an online creation. Most of my work is inspired by badass women both real and fictional captured in a vision of bright colours and 80s sentiments. maybe one day I’ll be good at metaphors by Nichole Chrenek maybe one day I’ll be good at metaphors is about the people who come into your life at just the right time. It’s about the difficulty of expressing how much those people mean to you. It’s a trainwreck of imagery that makes a fleeting attempt at putting that feeling of wow I love you into words.

Skin and Kin by Loretta St. Laurent I come from a small town and experienced a great deal of culture shock and soul expansion after transferring from being surrounded by rural ‘backwoods’ Christian values, to the very liberal and progressive mode of thought that dominates McGill and Montreal in general.

This poem illustrates the difficulties I had in reconciling the naive bliss of my previous small-town existence with the more accepting values that come with immersion in city life, as well as the fact that these new values exposed the many flaws of the doctrines of my childhood. I hope you find it enjoyable to read. colorful by Lea P. Just a simple painting of a classic beautiful strong colorful woman! self love by Lea P. The painting was created during a messy breakup of a messy relationship.

At first it was supposed to represent utmost loneliness. As I slowly gained back confidence, the dark emptiness replaced a dependency. Instead of giving unwarranted love for someone else, it was finally time to love oneself.

Natalie Olivares Judy Huang Saydie Bubniw Anthi Tsobou Laure Brézard Fadwa Bahman Moragh McDougall Mehak Balwani Isabel Robertson Clementine Morisette Charline Côté-Lessard Delali Egyima Nadine Pelaez Annika Klein Nivedita Shukla Alexis Racicot Felycia Luo Christina Gabrielle Rosché

Emma Ciereszynski Sophie Schaffer-Wood Camille Malard Alison Yang Danielle Cormier Gracie Forgie Héloïse Huynh Ève-Marie Marceau Alexandra Beck Nivedita Shukla Gillian Aldridge Lea Joseph Gwyn Peters Maggie Roberts Kirsten Wesselow Emma Harris Katie Ross

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