The editors of Snarl take seriously the right to bodily autonomy that all people with uteruses deserve. Without establishing an explicit theme for our third issue, we found many of the works in this issue to be in conversation with the fraught state of parenting, pregnancy, and abortion in the US. This note means to both reinforce our commitment to reproductive freedom and provide a few points of action for our readers.
They did not tell you that in your greatest time of need,
an angel would show up to your place of work,
fold you in their wings while you cried,
and ask if you needed a ride.
In the week after my sister died
Following a day spent needlessly driving and throwing candy
From the window onto passing graves lining the highway
My brother James took me to a taco bell and watched heavily
As my fourteen-year-old mouth cradled a steak tortilla.
When men envision the future,
polyester-clad chest over wrought-iron frame echoing
like the long, hollow hold of a wooden boat,
little ray guns, shiny,
Take all your heavensand line them uphere is what you havewhat to bring with you—these apple blossomsthese striated winter skiesyour mother in the flowerbedsyour teethsplitting the name of the girlin the red windbreakerinto halvesyour shallow footprints in the foliar carpetdisordered and roaming. oh whiskey-eyed sunoh landscape after a wildfirein a dream we go softy intoContinue reading ““On the Desire for an Accompanied Death,” a Poem by Jessica Moore”
Sữa: milk. (Watch the dip of your tongue–Sửa: to fix.) Curdle rinsed. Empty plastic gallons windchimed against your collected hollow aluminum. Cans creased sharp. Sliced your and mother’s fingerprints. Stung to grip the bag. Big enough to float. Gravity-less smile on cartoon Earth. Revolving wheels crush and haybale. Overalled, the attendant opened our bag to sortContinue reading ““Speak, Plastic,” a Poem by Jade Hidle”
I remember my mother dancing. I remember craning my neck to see her, tilting my head so far back that my eyes were in line with my heels, for when I was short and round and two-years-old, my mother was tall and translucent, and very beautiful and would have been twenty-one-years-old.
I follow you as you follow the one above you.
You take the cliff, the trees, the deer on your wings.
I am behind you watching the ground over which we fly.
On the corner of 16th Street and Peralta, in front of the New Jerusalem Baptist Church, is an antediluvian dopeman who will give you balloons of brown powder in exchange for exotic cheeses. For a pound of Jersey Blue you can expect at least three balloons; a pear-shaped Caciocavallo Podolico could get you six, possiblyContinue reading ““The Wheel of San Geronimo,” an Essay by David Simmons”