Summer 2018

Letter from the Editor

Alexandria Petrassi

Dear Readers of So to Speak,

Welcome to yet another fantastic online issue, featuring visual art, poetry, fiction, and nonfiction that emphasizes a particular intersection. The pieces in this issue all represent a unique voice in feminism, and they share perspectives on everything from plural marriages in Mormonism, to disordered eating and self-image distortion, to new twists on myth and historical anecdote. The voices in this issue are interested in …

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What Good Is It To Touch A Wound

Sneha Subramanian Kanta

if you do not know how to
without emptying it of anxious colors
          we are all rotten with choice

but photosynthesis
is for plants
the wound produces a rainbow
of its own accord.

don’t fall
          graze
over a slope that un-yeilds –

          nothing is isolated
in this ecosystem
plant, animal, ether, protein

translate this in another language
you know nothing of and then
touch its words …

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Two Poems by stephanie roberts

stephanie roberts

JESUS DOESN’T LOVE THE LITTLE CHILDREN AS MUCH HAS HE USED TO
ain’t that just the gotdamn truth?
red & yellow? nope, don’t want em’
—especially the red all their blood later
the oranges still steal
crimson-wet land breaking
heads & contracts raising
stone cold towers over
bones anchored with steel
from golden peril.
is the black & white
still precious in his sight?
well, one of these is.
look how comfortably snow drowns
all color. drowns the brown
in …

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Ode to the Plural Marriage of My Mother, Nan Page, Merry Wife, in Five Acts

Dayna Patterson

First, my father with his guitar and mellow tenor like a campfire,
after a septennial of babies, bulimia, depression that clung
like woodsmoke. Then,

my half-brothers’ father, a black man, with his soulsong
and the way he could split you with laughter, slit your arm as he
dragged you by the leg and a stray nail bit. You ran to Canada, forced

migration. Third, your first cousin, his eight kids, your …

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The Spider and the Fly

Maureen Ott

The morning I left him, I unrolled reams of toilet paper; it lay in soft defiance on the bathroom floor. He hated that. How many times do I have to tell you not to let the toilet paper touch the floor? 

His sister, meanwhile, couldn’t believe it. What kind of woman leaves her husband after forty-six years of marriage?

A question unanswerable back then. I was too focused on …

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