BEAUTY

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BEA UTY

THE FRUIT TREE VOL. 3

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A THEA Editor i

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These kinds of letters always start with people describing how important this specific issue is, why this issue is the most important, groundbreaking one yet. Unfortunately for you, dear readers, (for once in my life see no reason to break con ention. note please blame any typos this letter might include on my cat, uh, who does not seem to understand why typing must sometimes take precedence o er petting him, and has therefore resorted on laying on my computer whene er possible to remedy such errors in my udgement. lo e this issue. t s been ama ing to me seeing how we e grown, from the amount of submissions we get, to the uality of the work we are therefore able to publish. Through hard work from the editors (especially from my fellow , as well as from support from readers and submitters alike, am confident in saying that this is the best issue we e published so far. The isual art is beautiful, the poetry included goes from inspiring to heartbreaking, then somehow manages both at the same time, and the short stories make me wish could force my college classes to discuss them instead of whate er colonialist and misogynistic writing we d generally be discussing otherwise. e uired reading rant aside, ust want to say thank you to e eryone who has been in ol ed in this issue. m so proud of the work we e made together.

Unfortunately, this letter of thanks is also one of goodbye.

UT will be my last issue as an editor for The

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Fruit Tree. ust want to say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you so, so much to e eryone who has trusted me with their work from our first issue, , to this one. am immensely e cited to see how the ournal keeps growing without me. ll be counting down the days until can read .

Thank you, goodbye, and all my lo e,

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. f anyone is interested in following my work elsewhere, or talking to me, either about the issue or anything else, you can find me on Twitter sorginale. ther links are in my bio. therwise, ll ust close by saying be gay, do crime . oodbye

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This day rededicate all that is shining, all that was formerly shining and has dimmed, all diamonds in the rough that ha e capacity to be changed and learn to shine, e ery place that has refracted into rainbows, e ery place that is lights off for making out or that is ust dark enough to fall asleep. ou may help rededicate it when it is done, you are in ited there. wish for you health, oy, success, calm. send you meaningful tarot readings, une pected insight, reser es of courage, phone calls with great news, memorable films, craft fairs, isions, discernment, an open mind, bonfires of old things that do not ser e, coffee at sunrise, warm red socks, ithraic mysteries of sacrifice, dreams that recall truth, sweaty e ercise, music with bells. usher in a sa ior who comes to your door and to whom you can gently say that you can sa e yourself, thank you ery much, but that you would lo e con ersation o er tea.

That is a friend.

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will into being fiat cat—a feline who sits on your lap and understands you.

There are pri es you e wanted.

That ackpot imagine f you win tonight s lottery, if the cash doesn t fit in your fridge, you could buy a errari or two, dri e to the beach, bring little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. ut you could cut off the crusts without winning the lottery. nd what else would make the day beautiful for you racticing guitar, isits and hugs, reali ing there is sunshine e en in winter, pasta and pudding, comfortable shoes, a meditation that feels right, artistic insight, pinecones with seeds that ha e flown. etter than waiting for a ackpot, pick a number for breath, hope, clarity, see what is already here and has been shining all along, accept it, rededicate it.

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et s step outside for a moment and keep walking walking walking until we find the forest heart. f could say lo e, wouldn t say it would gi e you a s uirrel so you could eat it raw. f we burn e erything down, e erything but the belo ed land, would it be alright ould we get lost ould we partake

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eat the snow in the dri eway for dinner, all dirt and cream, scream at the moon like something rabid, feral cat on back alley stoop s ualling in heat, you are afraid of nothing, you are e, sucking uice from an apple core, like pacing and open closing the refrigerator door e was ne er hungry, she was bored.

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. ne story is ne er enough. am one body and one mind, one heart and one soul, and, ostensibly, one story. ut things are ne er so simple. will ne er be able to tell you who am in its entirety.

There are too many words to say, too many images to dispel, too many apologies to make and too many people to forgi e. want to tell you, instead, of a few people ha e been in my life and a few people ha e lo ed and a few things ha e lost.

want to tell you about a label that used to li e ne t to my heart, but soon crawled inside when wasn t looking and took o er. want to tell you how reali ed am ase ual and how that broke my heart. want to show you the pieces of it, gilded in the lights of my story. cannot tell you e erything. There are not enough minutes and not enough patience. ut ll say what needs to be said. ll begin with the first.

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ll begin with ason. e is my first crush and he is my last. n my memories, dull with time and middle school fantasy, ason turns to smile at me and can ust make out the white of his teeth and the auburn red of his hair. e is held perfect there, on the edge of adolescence. e s like e ery typical middle school boy greasy and all together too interested in sports, loud and beaming with a lopsided grin. ut he is sweet and he helped me clean up my lunch when it fell on the floor one time and he sat ne t to me in the hall once and we talked for a couple minutes about something that didn t matter at all, so of course de eloped a crush on him. f course, fell in lo e with the cur e of his aw. f course, ne er spoke more than a few times to him. f course, all wanted was for him to hold my hand. ason is the first and last for a reason. y crush on him is fueled by wanting to look at him and listen to him. ut a girl with curly brown hair and a sad face gets pregnant in eighth grade and suddenly e eryone wants to ha e se . y crush on ason is fueled by wanting to see him and be seen by him.

There s a se ed class at school that says don t do it and not much of anything else.

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think of my crush on ason and reali e that s not a problem. t s a simple thought, but it changes e erything. t leads me to the catacombs of oogle.

They are long and winding, their twists and turns in my dreams. walk them until my knees gi e out and my feet bleed, until there are only results left and not a lot of e planation, because cannot li e in the dark anymore. see it there, at the end of the tunnel, like one last hope set against the barbed crags. t s a definition, clear and concise for once in goddamn fore er se uality is the lack of se ual attraction to others, or low or absent interest in se ual acti ity. sei e it with a feeding fren y, es, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes held that label close, tucked it in my hands like a captured do e who would fly from those catacombs if loosened my grip e en an inch. tore at myself, one layer of skin at a time, to keep it there. ached to li e inside the idea that am someone, anything that isn t ther.

To carry that word, ase ual, was one more weight on my shoulders, but what did it matter when already carried a thousand t was a burden, but felt lighter e ery time thought of ason s innocent smile. had let him go, like e eryone does with a middle school crush that barely means anything, but had also trapped acceptance and knowledge in an hourglass made of his memory.

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n him, had found myself, had understood myself, had felt safe. o it breaks my heart that, when tell my mom that am ase ual the second time (not the first time, it did not e en register then , his is the first name on her lips. m on the phone with her, miles away at uni ersity, but she is still attached to me through an umbilical cord that she hacks at. e is why she calls it impossible. ou ha e to like boys, she says, remember ason, she says. t feels like a betrayal, because hold ason s pearly whites and shock red hair close to my heart and she has taken him from me. . he is so different from ad, the second parent, the one who raises me on grunge lyrics that put angst in my skin and teenage tension on my brain. e puts the oo ighters, ir ana, and the mashing umpkins in my ocabulary and wonder if he e er asked mom if they were teaching me the right thing. wonder if he e er reali ed that he was raising me to be a rebel.

Then again, the kids at summer camp say that they don t like my name ebecca is too simplistic.

They say it doesn t suit me, so they call me ebel instead. like to think it fits between the melodies ad wrapped my childhood in.

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think of ebel when get up to the mic at a poetry competition and spill out, for the first time, the label that has li ed ne t to my heart. o walk up there and bleed blood red all o er the floor for all of them to see want to show them that am not afraid, that am what am and won t let them tell me who to be. look at my dad, in the middle of screaming am ase ual.

I see his face. li e in that moment sometimes, when our eyes met and the syllables of the word that could destroy us slithered out of my teeth. die in that moment sometimes, the want to be known weeping out of my chest. ut breathe out for the first time in so long when see his face, because there, between his iris and his tears, between his laugh lines and his o clock shadow, see the word ebel written.

Then, know. Then, understand. Then, feel safe. am four years old spinning under the cherry tree in our front yard in his arms. am fi e years old watching him lace up his combat boots as he kisses me goodbye. am si years old listening to erlong in the basement with his hand in mine. y father ga e me so many gifts and he will ne er take them back.

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fter, when had gotten down from the mic stand and was uaking from fear and shock, he hugged me tight. e didn t say anything. e didn t need to. ad raised me to be all can be and know he sees that this is part of me. think of this when am crying in the shower after om hangs up the phone. ad had said nothing at all, but he held my heart between his hands and ga e it no udgment, no weight, no hate. om had said too much and crushed my heart between her nails with a flick of her wrist. want to scream at her, f you think could change, then ask yourself why ha en t done it yet. o you think want you to look at me like this ut reali e, with shampoo pooling in my lungs, that don t need her permission. se uality is written inside me, part of my biology. . t comes from so many things it is not isolated, it li es in my limbs and in my history and in my story.

There are reasons for why it e ists, things had ne er thought of before, dots had ne er connected, because hadn t understood that e erything you are and e erything you will become are stacked atop each other.

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hadn t stopped to think that my body betrayed me at ele en years old and maybe that changed who am, what am, who like.

There is a heart between my hips my uterus is shaped like it and it bleeds like a lo er s uarrel and the doctors tell me to be afraid of it. feel it beating there after the surgery stems the pain, after the doctors prescribe little green pills, after the nurses gi e ague warnings about how close was to dying. alformed uterus, they say. e ere endometriosis, they say. e re sorry, they say. s listen to them, reali e that you can t trust your body. t is not what s real what matters is on the inside, trapped by organs and hormones. am di orced from my body at ele en years old cannot stand to see it as all am anymore. ow, see no one that way. cannot stand to see your body as all that you are there is more, there is more, there is more. y heart between my hips beats this into my eins. se uality is born from this, think.

There is more that they e pect me to say about where it came from or why it happened, but the answer is simple there s a little girl who wants to be lo ed but cannot stand to be inside herself, so she ignores her body and e eryone else s.

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t s always been that simple. . ut there is an empty place in the heart that will ne er be simple, that will ne er be filled.

There s always someone who took something from you, e en if they didn t mean to.

There s always something that holds you back.

There s always something you ll say is okay when it really isn t. ike how try to be okay when my depression wraps around my brain stem and s uee es until can t think. try to be okay when ase ual hangs around my neck like a chain. try to be okay right up until e plode and accidentally tell the school nurse that m suicidal.

Then, there are pieces all o er the ground and no one wants to help. lose hope that am more than what has been done to me. think am alone. ut, there s a hand on my shoulder. t s soft and unassuming, painted in pastel yellows and happy thoughts. t s ecca, who will become my best friend without e en reali ing.

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t s ecca, who sa es me from myself. he whispers at the lunch table that it’s okay. he picked up the pieces that e eryone else broke and put them back (mostly where they re supposed to be. he is unabashedly herself and lo e her like e ne er lo ed anyone else. ecca shares my name and she could share anything else in my life if she wanted because she ga e me a gift that no one else can compare to. he set me free, loosened me from my burdens and filled the empty inside me for the first time. ith her, reali e that spent so long trying to fit into ase ual when should ha e been trying to make it fit me. . t hurts to li e inside my body sometimes. f close my eyes, can almost belie e am fi e years old again with a flower in my hair and nothing in my head.

That girl could not imagine what we ha e become together. ha e warped her memory, chipped away at it until she becomes what need her to be. forgot her.

That girl had a crush on a boy with burnt orange hair and fought a battle against her own body, she danced in the dark when she was too young and found a best friend who puts up with all her bullshit.

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ha e forgotten her. ha e willed her away so can put things simply. he was ne er simple. ha e forgotten that. ha e forgotten so much. ut will not forget this time. label can help you declare who and what you are unabashedly to the world. ut let it become me, and e en though ase uality comes from deep within the catacombs of my head, it is not all that am. t is simply a part of my story. o now ha e a piece of ad ice here do your feelings come from Take a good long look. sk yourself who you were as a child, who you wanted to be, what you saw and what you thought. ind a place where you are comfortable enough to ask who you are.

Then, see yourself for the first time. ll the ugly, the good, the bad, the lo ely, the sad, the funny, the fucked up.

Then, choose yourself for the first time. e all change in our li es. e shift, moment to moment, lo e to lo e, passion to passion, se uality to se uality. hoose to lo e e ery moment of your body, your heart, your mind. ou are a miracle unto yourself, a cataclysmic collision of atoms and starlight, raw and unforgi ing. ou are beautiful. nce you reali e this, you will know yourself for the first time.

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is that it dips me too long in my puddle of gender and woman and wanting to float abo e and between and sideways. when onny paints his nails it s androgynous pure when i paint my nails it s lipstick. lately i ha e nightmares the barber sprouts my hair longer but not as long as it was when it made me feel sharpened and flat like a by antine icon, rather, a middle length that can only be described as sassy. i want monochrome playsuits like tan and karamo. i want to be an absolute unit of a teletubby and on the screen on my stomach is e eryone i e e er lo ed and i can feel them wa ing. i want the purse and the hat, the ball and the scooter, net ero without a scale, perfect balance without any weights. eh oh me deflecting, but softly, like tossing a beanie baby at a lampshade

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m reading a book about ena orne now. e s at ce ardware buying a new toilet flapper. t s all part of our gay agenda. e re taking o er. e d lo e to impact a life, help someone disco er the rapture of changing used litter and watching dusk through the basement window tiptoe ust past the bo es.

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her hair falls in ribbons falls in smoketrails down the chainlink of her spine the alleyways between townhouses were made for bodies like hers, daintily omiting, then emerging reborn, in barsweat placenta (ne er o erripe mascara smudged ust so e erything ust so all se and sweet and small enough that hysteria becomes enigma

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ow we see oursel es and how others percei e us are two separate e periences. This was ne er clearer to me than the a erage e ening in unior year of college that saw someone else in the mirror. or the first time in my life, saw a beautiful girl looking back at me. ut she wasn t me she was a stranger.

This makes me wonder are we only capable of seeing our own beauty when we percei e it as belonging to someone else n the night in uestion, looked into my dorm room mirror and someone else looked back at me. he regarded me, blinking slowly, her face e pressionless. raised my hand to touch my own face my fingertips brushed my skin at the same time the girl in the mirror caressed her own cheek. ho was she here had she come from The girl s brow furrowed as uestioned myself. er face showed confusion, but it didn t seem to belong to her. controlled her muscles like an a atar or an automaton. f could put my head to her chest, would hear clockwork ticking searched her eyes she stared blankly back at me. ne er understood how other people could discern emotions solely from a person s eyes. always looked around those features, for crinkles or other e pressions written in their skin. ut for once, felt that wasn t simply unable to see. nstead, felt an absence in her eyes, like there was truly nothing to be seen there. ea ing her eyes, ne t traced her cheekbones. id she e en ha e cheekbones hat shape was her face, anyway al ound blong egardless, her cheeks remained the same. hether she was a smiling proud graduate of elementary

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school or a melancholy college student. en when the plump left her body unnoticed (despite the close eye she kept on it and she became the tall, skinny girl possessing e eryone else s genetic luck, her bones stayed hidden. The right lighting and angle could trick them into showing themsel es, but they always retreated when facing her face head on. ou trace the place where bones would be if they were isible, and her hand follows yours with no delay. ooking at that pale, round face contrasted against dark brown hair, you are reminded of The Neverending Story. n it, the hildlike mpress is gi en a new name to sa e her life oon hild. id someone gi e a similar name to the girl in the mirror s that why she suddenly li es apart from you he has the moon face for it. ou recall reading myths and stories where a face like the moon illustrated how beautiful, otherworldly, and ideal a female character was, based on fair skinned standards of beauty. The fair girl with long dark hair could feel like a goddess, or a nymph, or some other myth. ll that beauty is held by the girl in the mirror. There is none left for you. ou two are linked, somehow, and she has taken it all for herself. rowing up, when you and the girl were one, neither of you had beauty or wanted it. our family told you it was there, but you ust shrugged and when back to your homework. omewhere in your life, that changed. irst, you were merely curious about why some people were considered beautiful while others were not. To you, e eryone simply looked how they looked. They were all uni ue. Then, you wondered what it was about your own appearance that pre ented people from e en thinking about you that way.

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inally, you started desiring it. ou wanted one person to look at you and tell you they liked what they saw. ut that didn t happen. nd you couldn t stop yourself from wanting it, so you tried to not need it. ou struggled through years of repression, but by college you were dressing for your own comfort and style instead of what you belie ed would please others. ou ne er counted on being transgender. ou ne er planned for the possibility that e eryone told you was a woman s body was actually not. t s yours. ust yours, not male or female. eople e pected you to grow out of being a tomboy. nstead, you grew out of identifying as female all together. m brought back to my dorm bathroom, crying in front of the mirror. rying because finally see my body as physically pleasing, but only because don t see my reflection as myself anymore. y reflection is still a girl. he is the person the world sees when it looks at me, but she is not me. don t know if recogni ing my physical beauty while disassociating from that self is a step forward or a step back in terms of self esteem. hen still identified as a girl, knew that the components of my appearance were good clear skin, strong eyebrows, etc but couldn t see the parts as a whole. ow, can see the whole, but it s no longer mine. e seen a lot of support online for recogni ing that women are worth more than their appearance. nd fully agree with that. m so happy that that kind of positi ity is becoming more popular. ut am also worried about the women and little girls who aren t told they re pretty. m worried about the women and little girls and people who feel guilty for wanting

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to feel beautiful because they re told their looks don t matter instead of their looks are ust one part of their identity. m tired of people being shamed for trying too hard on their appearance. m tired of hearing girls who know they re pretty act like the world owes them something. m tired of women being punished regardless of lo ing their own looks, not lo ing their looks, or seeking alidation for their looks from other people. ither you re a bitch, falsely modest, or insecure. want people to recogni e that lo ing yourself is difficult, so any way that you manage it should be supported as long as you re not hurting yourself or others. li ed for twenty years without belie ing was beautiful, and only recogni ed my mistake once it was too late. don t want anyone else to e perience that. eauty is ery gendered in general, so don t know if ll e er fully recogni e my nonbinary self to be ust as beautiful as my cisfemale self. owe er, will allow myself to feel that fear, and surround myself with people who belie e otherwise. aybe one day will, too.

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y lo er left a stone in my hand. rumming the beach with her long legs, eins on marble, lines on limestone fine faint frontiers playing on her translucent flesh torso parallel to the hori on line she scans the pebbles through sand and weeds years of practice, her inner radar isolates illennia mar els.

The eroded lithified orb humbles my pretense my lo er speaks their rich language, erring through the rocky scars of time. he asks each one if it knows the ahara if it has seen death in the depth of the wine dark sea she wants to know if sea life is di ying. ut the stones are not a re ealing bunch they don t want her to get too nosy so they do it on purpose to hurt her high arch. tubborn and inured to life s trials, she persists, seeking the e clusi e clast that will draw a heart shaped uni ue attesting of the metaphysical narrati e

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symbol of our karmic union near the sunbathed sea, at the bottom, lies infinite fright. rystal shards lock the sun inside their iridescence, does the sacred hurt hy do pebbles persist o they really ha e a choice eanings hesitate at the cusp of the wa e .. re the reek gods watching our futile efforts to reconstruct their uni erse .. y lo er said the stone is sentient.

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od, wanted him. y hands shook whene er he was close. got his schedule so could walk down the hallways after he did, all in the hopes of getting a whiff of his cologne.

The smell of it it smelled like lilacs, or like iolets there was something almost sweet about it. once licked a wall after he had leaned on it, stopping only so nobody could notice. couldn t lose that ob would ha e done anything to keep it.

That ob meant seeing him, where could sometimes go into an ele ator right after he left it The pay was decent enough as well. Truth be told, needed the money. y apartment was taken care of, as were the utilities (my husband paid for those , but makeup was e pensi e, and so were the clothes had taken to wearing around the office. The coffee wasn t e pensi e, not at first, but now that was on an a erage of eight cups a day, it had started to add up. till, needed it. was waking up earlier and earlier now. t first, it had been for little things a minute or so more to make sure my lipstick was straight, then filling in my eyebrows. ll of that soon turned into a full face of makeup. That wasn t the main issue, not anymore. ow, e en on days when knew wouldn t see him, found myself awake nearly all of the time. t wasn t ust waking up early either. couldn t sleep anymore.

The dreams kept me awake. There was always lipstick in those dreams, and drowned in it, and in the too many hands at least, that was one of the ones that had most often. wondered

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if it was the dormant feminist in me, calling out an indignant response to my recent beha ior. egardless, found myself refusing sleep more and more often. ometimes went days at a time without allowing myself to do so. couldn t take anymore of those dark and ha y isions. would wake up panting and sweating, my heart pounding a mile a minute more often than not, would instead lay on my still made bed, forcing myself to watch mo ies, read maga ines, e en stare at the ceiling until had memori ed each splotch of gray peeking through the white paint anything to stay conscious. ther times, ust couldn t do it. knew couldn t e ade sleeping fore er, but e en on nights when ca ed, it was becoming harder and harder to do so. The circles under my eyes, e en carefully co ered with cream foundation and light powder as they were, were proof enough of that. forced my eyes to stay closed, but the pressure on my ribs was too much, and could feel the room spinning around me. n those nights, wondered if my heart would e plode, splattering mush and gore inside the ca ity between my ribcage and my spine. wondered how long it would take them to find me ( ichael wouldn t be back until ednesday, or aturday, or ne t onday . ow would look when they did ould my hair, dyed dark and carefully curled, fall casually yet gracefully o er the pink silk pa amas co ering my chest ould my face be melancholy earful ained had taken to putting on perfume before went to bed, ust in case. d met him at a hristmas work party two years before. d seen her first. t was impossible not to. e had been working in the office abo e mine since ugust, but don t

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think e er saw him until then, when saw them together. he was shocking. n a room full of muted suits and puritanical dresses, she was wearing dress pants and a shining, almost reflecti e, white shirt. The pants were so dark thought they were black, but when she turned, stepping closer into the light, could see my mistake. They were purple, deep, deep purple. er arms were tan, smooth, e posed by her slee eless shirt. od, she was perfect. e came to her, an offering of punch in hand. e said something in her ear then, something that made her throw her head back in laughter. y mouth felt dry. could feel my face burning up, but the rest of me felt like it had been frosted o er. y heart pounded. ichael came up to me, wrapped his arm around my waist and mumbled, his whiskey breath pooling down my neck ( could almost feel it pooling into the dip abo e my cla icles, dripping like slime down my crossed arms . ho is that t took me a minute to reali e what he was talking about. h, said. That s ark. e s in ublic elations. e nodded, already not listening, before kissing my neck. s he did, noticed that ark s tie was matched her pants. They must ha e picked them out together. s felt ichael s clammy lips trail down my neck, the frost on my skin was replaced with a deeper kind of cold, something older that sunk into my bones and clung from the outer lining of my organs. et s get out of here. saw them again, before we left, while ichael looked

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for his wallet, or his keys, or his phone, and waited by the door. They were together, looking into each other s eyes and smiling. y then, had already managed to find out that they were recently married, had been high school sweethearts, that this was his second marriage, and knew that her name was olanda. s waited for my own husband, imagined standing between them, unseen and intangible, so that could bask in the warmth that radiated between them. n her eyes, he must ha e looked perfect. is hair was combed, his shoes clean. could see it. he ran her hand down his arm and felt my entire body shi er. wanted to do that, to run my own hand down his arm, to kiss him until all could taste was punch, until all could see was the dark purple of his tie. nstead, ichael dro e me home. e had bad se , and afterwards downed three glasses of white wine while he slept with his pants on. had tried to control myself at first. The makeup could be e cused (impro ing my appearance only made sense as a career focused woman on the lookout for a raise . ther things, done afterwards, were harder to e plain away, such as finding out where he bought his groceries, or where his son s ittle eague team practiced, and, sometimes, when dared, waiting there for him. y then, howe er, knew my feelings to be lo e why else would go through such lengths and that could e plain anything. e wasn t a good father. didn t mind. e might only rarely pick up his own son from practice, or school, or play dates, but didn t ha e children, didn t want any, and how he treated his own was really none of my business. till, kept going. he was the one that picked the kid up, but sometimes she would run errands afterwards, and that could be worth it.

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nce, was lucky. The man at the dry cleaners agreed to lose one of her dresses in e change for some cash. t ne er would ha e fit me, of course, but wanted it so badly. ran my hands o er the material for hours, kept it folded in a bo under my bed otherwise. wondered how it felt when he touched her. he changed dry cleaners after that. was sleeping in the room d rented, ust across the street from his house, when the ding of my phone woke me. t was early, earlier e en than when would usually wake up, but e en with the blurriness of sleep, made out the words of the office memo. “…. ark… car crash… ate ast night… ronounced dead… orning… vigi to e he d… read the email o er and o er, until something finally melted away. felt my temperature rise, felt blood rush through my ears. n my orange red ha e, wondered what olanda would wear to the funeral.

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ha e scaled the mountain, and found at its peak, a adonna, holding her child, or so it seemed to me. ha e taken what was always mine, and with it, will become beauty incarnate. will shed my estigial forms. ing with me as we dance around the fire, and become what we always were. will burn my trauma and pain and will become anew once again, and when am crowned this world s rightful ueen, you will know, then, why the cold bree e hugs your face and the e ening shade hides the sunset from you.

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t o r dr d r t d it T i A

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escribe a feeling to someone the mo ement of hair in the wind translates to serene strength they s uint, but they can t see. They don t en ision themsel es in a wide open space they don t think freedo .

They don t call the swaying trees cousin, don t oin the dance don t glance around when the flowers call out they don t belie e the flower can call. on t let this deter you there is no need for glasses. ou are a sun. on t allow their confused orbits to alter yours with a mirror or magnifying glass you will set the world on fire, and you mustn t mistake their misunderstanding for cruelty. o you think the trees see in as many colors as the bees think the mountain ri er speaks the same language as the deepest oceans think the rain dislikes the sun because they are rarely seen together think the moon has always known to breathe in sync with the tides

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on t be fooled by their lack of comprehension you are ust as necessary to the uni erse and to each other. ou are not a typo you are a poem about the arth herself which deser es to li e on in her eins.

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Li

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our legs are tree trunks made of strength, steps that span the world. ll you know is that you are taller than most men you meet. our belly was car ed in rounded contours by ancient sculptors who prayed o er their tools, kissed by the cell di iding lightning of new life, armor for your churning organs. ll you know is that it s not perfectly flat. ou say your face is showing age. our face says look how am dangerous. ook how sur i ed. our beauty is a sil er tipped arrow s perfect tra ectory, your beauty is a redwood forest, your beauty is a city breathing sand through red stone. n empress. dragoness.

They told you to be smaller because they were afraid.

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FRO A E TO

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orma eloris gstrom from orth akota the sun dri ing yellow needles into your back. our stepmother mistreated you. amily alues got drunk behind a silo. ame came after you left. ame gets hungry. ow much did it eat from you our singing, lightning when the sky got too dark. ne of your songs says we re longing for a simpler time that ne er was. onging. ou made it beautiful but not less sad.

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Ho I o Br ri to t Fi t d

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. Usually, my nails are short and scabbed. ometimes chew them, ner ous. scrape them along the ridges of my incisors, spitting out grime of mysterious origin, tasting all the places e been, all the things e grabbed. plinters of memory come out in my teeth as pass the time with my hands in my mouth. . y mom had nails. he still has nails. e look similar, me and my mom. hen look at my hands, see hers. specially when m ner ous, and my nail beds become sore, bloody, puffed up mounds. hen was a kid, my mom had scabs all around her nails. . coriation disorder a mental illness related to obsessi e compulsi e disorder, characteri ed by chronic skin picking. see people do it all the time. specially women. remember watching my mom pick and bite around her fingernails, digging in at the top corner of the nail and peeling back towards herself. The pain becomes more acute the closer to the knuckle you get. didn t understand why she did it, but now do it too. do it all the time. . n argaret twood s at s ye, the main character pares

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the skin off the soles of her feet. he especially does this at slumber parties, coping with the tragedy of girlhood. de oured these scenes in my early s, with simultaneous oracity and nausea. . The summer turned , decided to grow out my nails. associate dead tissue growing with mourning. was in mourning, perhaps preempti ely, because the person was in lo e with was sick, and feared the worst. The last time saw them was in the ospital. y nails were filthy, sporting at least a week s growth and more than their fair share of dirt. hadn t showered in o er a week. was wearing a ridiculous outfit, trying to both lift the mood and escape the heat wa e black shorts fitted with spikes up the crotch alking to the hospital doors felt too slow, laborious. y limbs were burdened with worry, and swung with the same weighted cadence as they do in dreams where you need to run or fight, but you ust can t get your limbs to do it fast enough. . inching the nails is one of the first things learned to do in ilderness irst id. heck capillary refill. t indicates blood flow ou pinch someone s fingertip, the nail goes pale, and then when you let go, the colour should promptly return. f not, you know blood flow is restricted. saturated nail shows you re still ali e. . felt e tremely out of place in that hospital. compulsi ely tried to clean my nails with the corner of my isitor tag,

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scouring my memory for the best stories to tell about what had been up to since my last isit. made promises big promises, promises to mo e from the prairies to the coast, to be closer. romises that kept, but they don t remember. . fter this isit, imagined would grow my nails as long as could and would get a manicure. shellac manicure, where they put your hands under a heat lamp, and the nail polish gets really hard and doesn t chip for weeks. That s the problem with regular manicures, they chip. ou pay to ha e this thing done, and as soon as you reach for your wallet to pay, you smudge the polish and it was all a waste. hy would anyone in est in anything so fragile ut this time would be different. This time, was in mourning. This time, it would be shellac. . emme flagging is a code worn on the fingertip. t touches e erything we touch, a mediator between us and the physical world. lagging, borne of s gay male culture, was a way to find others like you without outing yourself to the world. hankerchief worn around the wrist or hanging out of a back pocket eft for top, right for bottom, two choices reinforcing the inescapability of the binary e en in gay subculture. ifferent colours meant different acti ities grey for bondage, na y for anal, light blue for oral. ue ruce pringstein s album art for orn in the U , where he accidentally told the world he wanted to get fisted with a red bandana in the back right pocket. femme flagging flicker of the hand that catches the

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eye. Two nails painted off colour, a code only other femmes knew. aybe two nails cut short on the dominant hand ucking fingers. reedom fingers. . ry, brittle nails that fre uently crack or split ha e been linked to thyroid disease. hene er go through a phase of nail painting, the top layers of my nails begin to peel off. keep getting tested for thyroid disease, but the tests always come back negati e. . ow to protect nails pply a nail hardener. oisturi e. oak the fingertips in castor oil. rub sal e all o er my body, homemade with roses from the eloponnese. soak in oli e oil baths while watching etfli comedies. grow my nails. . The summer turned , didn t know about freedom fingers yet. was afraid of what my nails would do to my se life. ueers are cut away from so much of society because of how we fuck, but if we re not fucking, then what . e since learned there are lots of solutions to this dilemma. ne of them is wearing glo es and stuffing the fingertips with cotton balls. The friend who taught me this really lo es nail fashion. They ha e four full si e ubbermaid containers full of nail polish, all impeccably organi ed. They had ne er paid for a manicure, but their nails were always

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perfect. . hen look down at my hands, the flesh in front of me, imagine an ghostly o erlay of my mother s hands. used to lay in her bed on weekend mornings while she slept in. would hold her hands and look at her nails. would sneak into her bedroom to do this. would run my own small finger pads o er the crests of her nails, which were impossible smooth and clean. The scene li es in my memory in the aesthetic of an ideali ed, mo ie ersion of hea en women in white dresses drifting through pillowy white clouds, all french tips and soft focus and golden light. . would get a shellac manicure, thought, and get my long nails cut and filed to a point. Talons. thought of condors, giant ultures who mate for life and sca enge the dead. thought of arpies, hybrid, hated bird women from rete who guard the underworld. reek high femmes. y kin. ondors seem like a mythical creature to me. ith a wingspan of o er three metres, they are the largest flying birds in the estern emisphere, making them inherently romantic. en more so because they mate for life. They often li e past . The world s oldest documented condor died at in lgeria. hen think of condors, think of orpheus, the reek god of sleep. ainstream stories tell that he rides across the sky each dusk pulling the blanket of night behind him. imagine that when a condor dies, it keeps soaring across the sky, ust behind orpheus blanket. t s widow soars too, but on the earthly side of the blanket. the two will continue to soar

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together, until the mortal bird ine itably reaches the ground and forgets. . y full grown fingers. y basketball fingers, my piano fingers. dults had so many names for my hands, but none of them told me you will lo e well. . y mom s hands on a pillow. would touch them with my own little fingers, and from my first person perspecti e it would look like a lanet arth close up of a baby animal and a mama animal piling their paws. The creases on her knuckles were elephant knees. lephants, the wisest, most caring animals. ewborns walk right underneath their mothers, cushioned from the wider world. y mother s knuckles were knobby, wider than the rest of her fingers, elephant legs that could maneu er my tiny body between. This is what my fingers look like now, too. hen think about it now, m still holding my breath, touching her hands while she s sleeping, trying not to wake her. ust wanting to get close to her, reaching to be closer and closer, slowing becoming too old to be close the way kids can be. y little fingers lighting brushing her ancient hands. he was probably in her thirties then, not ancient at all ust the thing that had known the longest in the whole world. . y lo er s hands, the one in the hospital, can only be described as lithe. They had worked on farms for years, but their hands maintained this willowy uality. felt like they could ease their whole hand into me, show me how delicately they could hold me.

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. n my personal myth about condors, the real reason the mortal condor forgets its belo ed dead is because it gets thirsty, lands and drinks from the i er ethe. . hen fantasi ing what a person might be like during se , look at their hands. . Three days before my planned manicure, was dri ing someone to the airport. he was isiting her fianc in prison. t made me think about all the days went to isit the hospital, thinking how the hell is this going to work, promising to mo e to their city, trying to en ision a life together with one foot already toeing towards isiting hours are o er. pick her up at the prison and drop her off at the airport. s lift her luggage out of my backseat gasp my thumbnail snaps off. uck. Three days away from getting my shiny, tough, unbreakable manicure. t takes me all day to decide what to do. The an iety is impossible to manage, especially without re erting to nail biting. look at my nails, think about my mom. think about the hospital. wonder about the future of my se life. The world is an airless oid without gra ity, tilted by ertigo, unbearable pressure rendering my lungs immobile. could ust get my nails done anyway who e en looks at thumbs could cut the other thumbnail to match, and maybe it would look edgy. could wait another month and grow it back but could go on with this mourning ritual for another month t had become so important, my nails, my shellac, and in that one moment gasp all the power had felt the power of lo e, and of grief e aporated.

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. cut off all my nails into my parents bathroom wastebasket. tried to make it into a ritual about letting go. etting go of e cess, of the dead parts of myself, of old stories that didn t need. t didn t really work. n retrospect, could ha e sung one of those woo woo songs that make anything into a ritual, but re ised to be about nail cutting tri it a a ay s irit tri it a a ay if it doesn’t serve us s irit tri it a a ay felt silly, trying to find indication on the bathroom floor ne t to my parents trash can. ut hell, was trying. s an old friend says, blessed be your best. This was the best had. . y mom s hands. er scabbed hands, mo ie hea en hands, elephant knee hands. . y lo er s hands, their long distance runner hands. . y hands. y blessed be your best hands, trying not to pick hands, waiting room hands. . ou i ove e .

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Tro o

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was onto tan orant something here

hair a tease genderless

e en around the eyes and the tum ga e them arbie food

put them in styrofoam houses from est uy trash

all kitchens and doorways they can t fit through no matter

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lways naked staring creased faces not

blessed lumps

gi ing a fuck palms up ass out yeah

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HITE ELI A O THE RIVER Ho i r rit Ri

There is uite nothing like passing slow by a thick black ri er e pecting nothing but oil and o erflowing and then watching mouth open the pelican di es for what might be slippery gleaming things eating their own breakfast in their own ri er

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right red lipstick coated my si year old lips. y ga e lingered, admiring the beautiful being beaming back at me through my mother s dressing room mirror. at eye perfected, mascara on fleek, eyeshadow sparingly applied. other was a professional with the brush and was a rapt and attenti e student. other s secret student. ascinated with the forbidden world of foundation and enty, eyeshadow and man, blush and liss. i ing deep into the worlds that my eldest sister bwooli nai ely shunned. he chose the battle tested chain mail of early feminism, instead of the di ine drapery of domesticity. t the time bwooli thought that the two were mutually e clusi e, choosing to embrace the roughshod galli anting of my two older brothers kiiki and twooki instead. n the name of e uality, bwooli tight knuckle gripped onto masculinity as a means to be taken seriously in a se ist world. he played football with our brothers, gleefully dri ing her steel cleats into their shins, eliciting torrents of tears, much to her amusement. bwooli was tougher than our brothers which brought her immense pride. he asserted her dominance often, grabbing the backs of their necks and smashing their foreheads into each other. he watched them weep as she spat out, issies and chortled with glee.

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watched as always did, from the sidelines. was bwooli s fa ourite, granted preferential treatment and allowed to be soft. oftness re uired permission. bwooli sheltered and protected me. y mother, disappointed by bwooli s lack of feminine wiles, found a willing albeit irregular pupil in me. s she sat in front of her mirror, dabbing on foundation, glancing out of the side of her eye at her only student to utter, hat a shame. ou ha e such shapely eyelashes. They were wasted on a boy

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kay, what was so important that you couldn t tell me o er the phone asked as Tom shut the bedroom door behind us. e looked up and stared at me with a harsh glare. o you promise not to breathe a word of anything m about to say to anyone, on pain of death stared at Tom for a hot second. e d been friends since we were little kids, so this kind of theatrics wasn t new. took a cautious seat on his bed. es said cautiously.

Tom took a deep breath and sat down ne t to me, taking my hands in his. ill you, he began, more serious than d e er seen him before, gi e me a makeo er t took me a bit to process what he d ust said. m sorry, what Tom leaped up and flung open his closet doors. acken ie got in ited to her cousin s wedding ne t weekend and desperately need to make a good impression on her family. need your help. stood and started going through his closet, item by item. lot of t shirts he d had since college, eans and shorts, a few nicer shirts, and the one nice white button down and pair of slacks d seen him wear to e ery inter iew and formal e ent o er the past ten years. ear od, you really do need my help, said, pulling out a shirt with the logo of a band hadn t thought about since

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high school embla oned on it. lease, ill, m begging you. This is urgent. t s a matter of life and death. Tom pleaded. e dropped to his knees, hands folded and lips pouting. rolled my eyes. et up. es, ll help you.

Tom popped to his feet and swept me up in a bear hug. ou are the best friend a guy could ask for. lright, put me down. f m going to gi e you the full ueer ye treatment, e got to see what m dealing with. d be lying through my teeth if said d ne er stared at Tom before then, but those times had been with the wistful eyes of a lonely gay teen or a drunk and horny twenty something. This time, was analy ing him with a calculating eye, trying to weigh e ery facet, good and bad. is eyes were a warm brown with flecks of gold, his hair a close cropped mass of dirty blond curls. is tanned face was framed by a strong beard that ust needed a little trim. e was broad shouldered and muscular without being too huge. nodded appro ingly.

There were good bones there, beneath the cargo shorts and the was he seriously wearing a ortnite tee ome on, said, grabbing his hand, we e got work to do. i e hours later, was outside of the dressing room in eiman arcus, feeling the effects of my midday coffee wearing off. or a guy who asked me for ad ice on how to make him look good, Tom certainly didn t make the process easy for me. fter getting a haircut and grabbing lunch, we stalked the mall to find a place where could show Tom the ropes on how to actually dress. e insisted on me not ust

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picking out the clothes for him, which would ha e taken me no more than half an hour, but teaching him how to dress, like was the sensei in the world s gayest karate mo ie. showed him which colors looked good on him and which to a oid, how to match prints and solids, what pieces he needed for a cohesi e outfit and anything else could remember from watching hat ot to ear as a kid. ow he was in and out of the dressing room, putting on a little fashion show for me with the arious looks that he d put together. ll admit, each one was better than the last, but by now, was ust ready to go. kay, okay, okay. think this might be the look. re you ready for it Tom called out for the twentieth time. et s see it, answered, slapping myself so looked awake and attenti e.

Tom opened the door of the dressing room and stepped out. was dumbstruck. e was dressed in a sportscoat the color of the open ocean on a clear day, slim fit trousers the color of aribbean sand, and a crisp white button down unbuttoned ust enough to look summery and not slea y. is hair, all brushed to the side in soft wa es, shone like gold in the shitty fluorescent store lights. y sense of pride told me d done my ob, but the little fluttering in my chest said might ha e done a little too well. e stepped out and looked in the mirrors, checking himself out from e ery angle ust like was. e turned to me and held his arms open, grinning from ear to ear. hat do you think ou look ama ing, said. ow do you feel Tom turned back to the mirror and started looking at

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himself again. feel incredible, he said. ou made me look like a fucking model. s much as d lo e to take all the credit, you re the one who picked e erything out. reminded him. ut you helped. e turned back to me, his eyes full of genuine gratitude. Thank you. smiled back. ou can thank me by letting me take you out on the town to celebrate all our hard work. eal. et s go. n hour and a half later, we were on our second round of drinks at allaghan s, our fa orite little bar and grill. mpty plates that once held nachos and wings were now co ered with napkins, and we were laughing about the silly mundane things that had happened in our li es since the last time we d hung out. Tom s smile and laughter made better accessories than anything hristian ior could e er dream up. e were ha ing a good time, ust the two of us. t had been a while since we d had a guys night. till, kept finding myself watching the way his mouth mo ed as he talked or the way his hair caught the light dancing off the bar. kept ha ing to snap myself out of my hypnotic re erie. Tom and had had this con ersation before, and we both knew it was ne er going to happen. t wasn t worth wasting brain space on staring at him. s was gi ing myself a little pep talk, a redhead woman in a tight gold dress sat down at the bar ne t to Tom and ordered a odka soda. he got her drink and turned to him. i, she said, slurring ust a tiny bit, m eronica.

Tom, he said shortly.

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hat s a hot piece of ass like you doing here she asked. put a hand on Tom s shoulder and peeked around. ga e eronica a little wa e. e s here with me and he s taken. orry, hun. eronica gasped and put her hands o er her mouth. h my od, am so sorry. didn t mean to assume anything. o, it s fine started. he placed a hand on our shoulders and looked us both uncomfortably deep in the eyes. ou two are so lucky to ha e each other. wish you nothing but good times. gingerly picked her hand off my shoulder and set it down on the bar. Thanks, said, hoping that would be enough to end the con ersation. ne of eronica s friends called her back to their table and she left, gi ing me and Tom a subtle wa e goodbye. e looked at each other and burst out laughing. h man, outdid myself this time, said, he totally thought you were gay This is going down for the best man speech. t the rate you keep writing things down, that speech ll be an hour at least, Tom remarked as typed something into my notes app. ell, it ll be a lot shorter if you and acken ie actually decide to get married. e re getting there. t s ust not the right time yet. know, know. uddenly, the air in the room felt a lot hea ier. There was a pause as we looked down into our drinks.

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ow are things with you and an Tom asked. picked a thing of mint out of the dregs of my mo ito. ot great, if m being honest. hat s wrong othing ma or. think the spark s ust fi led out. e s looking at obs back east and that might be the right time to end things. m sorry to hear that, Tom said. e reached his arm around me and pulled me into a side hug, his hand resting on my upper arm. know you e probably heard this a lot before, he started, but you are an ama ing person, and you re a great friend, and you ha e so much to offer this world. hether or not you wind up with someone, you ha e people who lo e you and care about you. wiped away the first stupid tears that started to form in my eyes. Thanks, man. ou know e got you, ill. looked up at him. e was so close to me now. could see the gold flecks in his eyes sparkling like Tiffany earrings.

This big dumb goofball with his dramatics and his speeches. e ga e me a constant headache sometimes. nd he d been my best friend for o er twenty years. leaned up and ga e him a kiss on the cheek, right abo e his freshly trimmed beard. settled back down and sank my head into his shoulder e er so slightly. e got you too, Tom. said.

Tom s uee ed me in his hug and we stayed like that for ust a moment before it was time to lea e.

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am so handsome. on t look like my dad when he was twenty and tall and grinning in the green beans of his mother s garden hen his hair was short and his hands were calloused and he was grinning. on t look like my dad and aren t handsome look at the ankles of the boy sitting across from me the way his shoulders pull back as he yawns then smiles. o look like the boy sitting across from me stretch, cross my ankles, like him. o look like my dad am almost twenty two. y hair is short and my hands are soft, but in the summer will make them hard and calloused. n the summer, when my name will be lyfford, when my body will stretch like a long grin in the green beans. n the summer, when will look like my dad.

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T ro i Ro r o

t o o r

ellyfish tangles of sun dance like a burning scar a coyote wrings out the linen like neck of some small, dead thing. am looking into a painting someone claims is something you can see in this world but promised beauty isn t without price and m checking the tags. am li ing in the unintentional bomb shelter of the body. am yanking out each stout cactus of black tooth from my mouth. am coyote cooing at the moon moon with three eyes, bursting with buckshot. am stealing time clinging to the steel minute hand, feet dangling abo e the retrose spines of strangers smiles. raw me into something can belie e in an eclipsing black tongue of truth.

t i

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L BT RE OUR E

Armenia:

rmenia (http www.pinkarmenia.org en

Australia: i ersity T (https di ersityact.org.au ustralia (http pflagaustralia.org.au Transgender ictoria (https transgender ictoria.com Austria: ainbow ampaign (http www.rainbowcampaign.com imprint Bangladesh: oys of angladesh (http www.boysofbangladesh.org Belize: United eli e d ocacy o ement U (unibam.org Canada: gale (https egale.ca ride enter of dmonton (https pridecentreofedmonton.ca unity (https munity.ca ainbow esource enter (https rainbowresourcecentre.org entre ommunautaire T de ontreal (http www.cclgbt plus.org U ride entre for e uality ender i ersity nc. (https www.urpride.ca UT askatoon (https www.outsaskatoon.ca China: ei ing

T enter (https www.aibai.cn

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Colombia: olombia i ersa (http colombiadi ersa.org Croatia: agreb ride ( agreb pride.net hr Denmark:

T anmark (http www.lgbt.dk

Estonia: The stonian T ssociation (https www.lgbt.ee eikristlaste ogu (http www.gei.kristlased.ee isdak ride (https bisdakpride.wordpress.com Germany: (http www.maneo.de en about maneo maneo in short.html esben und chwulen erband (https www.ls d.de Hong Kong: ink lliance (https pinkalliance.hk eland: amt kin

(https samtokin

.is

ndia: a oundation (https na india.org taly: rcigay (https www.arcigay.it en amai a:

lag (http

flag.org

Kenya: The ay and esbian oalition of enya ( (https www.galck.org shtar (http www.ishtarmsm.org Transgender ducation and d ocacy (http transgender.or.ke

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e i o: e ico Transgender enter (http me icotransgendercenter.com e ealand: ay of ilence (dayofsilence.org.n ay (https www.gayn .com m ocal ro ect (http www.imlocal.co.n e al: lue iamond ociety (http www.bds.org.np hili ines: Trans an ilipinas (https www.facebook.com Trans an ilipinas ortugal: inde .php

ortugal (https ilga portugal.pt ilga

otland: ffirmation cotland (http affirmationscotland.org.uk ain: raternidad ay in ronteras (https gaysinfronteras.weebly.com ai an: Taiwan Tong hi otline ssociation (hotline.org.tw rinidad y obago: oalition d ocating for the nclusion of e ual rientation (https gspottt.wordpress.com ganda: e ual inorities Uganda (https se ualminoritiesuganda.com

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nited Kingdom: ampaign for omose ual www.c h e.org.uk ut age (http outrage.org.uk tonewall (https www.stonewall.org.uk

uality (http

nited tates: olage (https www.colage.org uality ederation (https www.e ualityfederation.org ay and esbian edical ssociation (http www.glma.org ay, esbian, and traight ducation etwork (https www.glsen.org (https www.glaad.org uman ights ampaign (https www.hrc.org uman ights irst (https www.humanrightsfirst.org ambda egal (https www.lambdalegal.org atin eo le amilia Trans ueer liberation o ement (https familiat lm.org o ind some that are state s e i i he k out: https www.e ualde .com organi ations united states https www.lgbtcenters.org T enters orld ide: ll ut (https allout.org en mnesty nternational (https www.amnesty.org enter ink (https www.lgbtcenters.org ualde (https www.e ualde .com i ersity ro (https di ersitypro.eu reedom To arry (http www.freedomtomarry.org lobal ction for Trans uality (http transacti ists.org ampaign (http www.grincampaign.com ome.html t ets etter ro ect (https itgetsbetter.org

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Euro e:

urope (https www.ilga europe.org

our es: https www.e ualde .com organi ations https www.lgbtcenters.org

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HO

E ARE

le . . ( o editor in hief is a e ican leftist lesbian. They share an apartment with a cat, uh, and with too many books and

too little time. They currently split their days between studying nglish and thnic tudies in an iego, and reading and writing in Ti uana. ou can find her on twitter as sorginale. ou can also see her ines at issuu.com mossmoon. ( he they . di c ally, a year old hitworth student, is a baby in the world of literature and is not afraid to own up to that. They grew up in an e tremely conser ati e home and are now taking this opportunity to li e their own free, ueer identity. Their poetry speaks primarily of ueer e periences, mental health, and reconciling aspects of one s identity. pu is a years old ueer enby punk, organic gardener farmer and collage diy artist workin and li in on a organic seed breeding farm near remen northern germany. he s creatin collage artwork for more than years now (doin a lot of coops with ines, bands, solidarity pro ects, collecti es... and is part of a small diy art collecti e named Theo ollecti e https theobeam.wordpress.com about . ee arucci is a polyamorous aroace enby ma oring in nglish at U . They ha e not published anything yet, but hope to do so soon.

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nnis ook ashe, who has also published under the name ayla ashe, is a poet game designer teaching artist from the ew ork area. Their work has pre iously appeared in trange ori ons, iminality aga ine, and ricket, as well as many other ines and anthologies. ind more information about them at https ennisrook.wordpress.com . race im ( ditor is a woman ma oring in nglish with a creati e writing emphasis and a minor in nternational elations at U . he writes fiction and non fiction centering around issues of immigration and race. he plans on finishing law school and publishing work in the future. ollis arguerite igney ( o editor in hief is a non binary ueer student and poet who li es and works in range, and an iego, . They ha e pre iously published work under the names annah Te es and ollis Te es. Their academic interests include contemporary poetry, postcolonial literature, children s poetry and literature, and the representation of the ueer e perience in historical literature and mythology. They en oy spending time listening to sad folk music and holding cats. ontact them at hnte es gmail.com or on Twitter unise lo e. olly al atore is a non binary farmer and poet in oulder, . Their writing can be found in a ariety of places and their art appears in oney ime. They tweet ueen ompost and are e cellent at naming chickens. ind them outside.

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a apadopoulos is an interdisciplinary artist who works in e perimental poetry, installation, ideo and performance. clown school graduate, a also has a in onflict esolution and is currently pursuing an in reati e riting from the Uni ersity of ritish olumbia. They are interested in diaspora, reco ery, bodies, place, memory, grief, and ritual. n , a performed at ocumenta in thens, reece alongside nnie prinkle and eth tephens. n , a completed the edia rts esidency at ideo ool and was a ambda iterary ellow in oetry. Their work has been published in ustling erse, ailed aga ine, The carus ro ect, and more. a grew up on Treaty territory, anada, and currently li es on unceded oast alish territory. enna aco is a technical writer from Te as working in isual programming and the internet of things. er work has most recently appeared in el et iant and each ag. he tweets enna aco. ara oughnour is a ueer writer and documentarian li ing in ittsburgh, ennsyl ania. They recei ed their achelor s egree in reati e and rofessional riting from The Uni ersity of ittsburgh. They are the recipient of the erald tern oetry ward, and ha e work published or forthcoming in Third oint ress, the outhampton e iew, and o er twenty fi e others. ollow them on Twitter kara goughnour or read their collected and e clusi e works at karagoughnour.com.

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arine eno ncellin was born and grew up in ew ork until she mo ed to ery different countries altogether. he worked on ybrid identities for her hd at the ri e Uni ersiteit of russels. he earned an , with onours, in iterature at the harles nstitute of aris . he is now a professor, writer and translator li ing in thens, reece. he has published articles and inter iews for the , ulturissimo, and arious other media. he is now in ol ed in the promotion of pan ellenic iterature. he co founded a poetry society in thens, reece with ngela yras (www.apoetsagora.com . ome of her poems ha e been put into music by the a composer eila li esi.https www.youtube.com watch Uwp r oand the yrics here https sil erstorkmaga ine.weebly.com skype tear.html ate in ner is a bi cis woman studying tele ision writing production. he writes short fiction and poetry, and currently works as a freelance short film producer. fter graduation she plans to work in children s tele ision programming. enneth obo has a new book out called The tlantis it arade. is work has appeared in The ueer outh nthology, ag ag, udfish, and elsewhere. auren le anik is an a id gardener and houseplant collector. he maintains an apartment turned greenhouse when she isn t working in an actual greenhouse. he is a third year student at U a is, where she studies lant iology.

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atthew inkney is a writer and unior Tele ision riting roduction student at hapman Uni ersity. riginally from an ose, alifornia, he is primarily a writer of young adult and adult speculati e fiction with an eye for creating entertaining and socially conscious media across a ariety of formats. is debut no el, irth by lame, is a ailable where er fine e books are sold. ( e him his . ugabi yenkya is a black, disabled, ueer, polygender writer, poet and occasional rapper. e was born in igeria, to Ugandan parents and is currently based between ampala and Toronto. ugabi was longlisted for the abishai iwe oetry ward in . is essays and poetry ha e been published on The ood en ro ect, frican riter and rts nd frica, among other publications. aulina ierra is a cis bi atin wom n ma oring in economics, with minors in political science and theater. he writes fiction and poetry in her spare time. he lo es theater and intersectional feminism, like the music of anelle onae. aige erguson is a anse ual anromantic, se ual, and enderfluid indi idual. They are currently a philosophy student at U and will be studying medie al history at U in the fall. therwise, aige is a hobbyist photographer and her fa orite thing to photograph is gra eyards. They especially like gra eyards in rural areas and gra eyards on hills.

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ebecca okitus is a poet residing in the hiladelphia area. he is the author of two poetry collections easonal ffected, now a ailable from ublications, and lue ucolic, forthcoming from Thirty est ublishing ouse. ou can find her on Twitter and nstagram at r b cca anna, and you can read more of her writing on her website https rebeccakokitus.wi site.com rebeccakokitus. ebecca nken is a freshman at Uni ersity of an iego from maha, ebraska pursuing a double ma or in istory and nternational elations and a minor in lassical tudies. hile in high school, she was a part of ouder than a omb reat lains, where she used slam poetry to e plore her identity, including her se uality. hen she was in ited to participate in an e ent on Uni ersity of an iego called y tory, she umped at the chance to craft an e pression of her ourney to self acceptance. he hopes it will show others that there is beauty in e ery part of them. iley uglich ( ditor is a trans ueer contributor, and he is ery enthusiastic about working on The ruit Tree. e is additionally ery enthusiastic about the potential of science and cool animals. e has worked on a few other independent literary productions, and does some material crafts work as well. onald olff is a published writer and photographer li ing in laremont, alifornia. e retired in from a long career as a nonprofit and now de otes his energy to his hobbies, tra el, and olunteer work. isit nstagram opcapitolhill.

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ophie arch is from en er, olorado and currently li es in ortland, regon. They e been pre iously published in obart, sea foam mag, and irdy. They like spiders, gardening, and poetry.

Talia mato has been writing since she was se en years old, and acknowledges that her best work may ha e come from those first few years of crayon on paper. n addition to her self published chapbook, sterismos, some of her more recent work has found a reluctant audience on acebook, and at a handful of literature maga ines including The cene eard and onstellations. he is currently studying political science and human rights at U a is.

Tucker ieberman analy es ueer wonders in his books ainting ragons and ad Fire. is poems are in ockva e evie cross Through arias at Sa aguitas itt e og sthetic ost e racin Neo ogis and efenestration. e and his husband li e in ogot , olombia. www.tuckerlieberman.com Twitter tuckerlieberman.

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d

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ou ha e come to the end of the third olume of The ruit Tree. hope you e en oyed reading the work of some incredible authors from around the world. eauty is a personal thing, and is especially linked to indi idual e periences of ethnicity, race, se uality, and gender. ach of you engaged with the theme of UT on le els that were stunning to witness. our pieces connect the beauty of the self, e plicitly the T self, and the beauty of the earth in intimate, funny, kind, and arring ways, and couldn t be more proud of you. am especially grateful to those authors who are transgender, who are people of color, who are disabled, or who are part of any other group which is a minority and which suffers from societal oppression, and whose creati e oices are fre uently minimi ed and silenced. am a white, middle class, cis passing merican. am e tremely pri ileged in my ability to share my creati e work. find it necessary to recogni e the courage and talent of the authors of this olume who are less pri ileged than am.

To be uite honest, ne er imagined this maga ine would grow to such a si e. n many of the responses to my emails of acceptance and re ection, authors told me they were proud or thrilled or happy to ha e their work accepted by The Fruit Tree. hile my imposter syndrome assures me that was e aggeration, these small notes brought tears to my gay trans eyes. Thank you for the trust and support that you ha e gi en us, and thank you for your submissions and your readership.

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nd thank you to our editors, for helping to make this maga ine what it is.

The ne t olume of The Fruit Tree will be published eptember, , and the submission period will close ugust. The theme is . will be resuming my role as the ditor in hief of The Fruit Tree and can t wait to see what you create. ith lo e and kindness, strength and power,

Ho i r o Editor i i o T

rit Ri Fr it Tr T T

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