tiny ghost hands
I’ll say Summer’s body was finally ready to give out & go home & listen to the unnameable birds, birds we will never see nor hear because what are we? I am bones. You are bones too.

from “Do You Hear Those Crows?” by Dalton Day (myshoesuntied)
published in The Harpoon Review (via williamjamespoetry)

<3 <3 

The new issue of FreezeRay Poetry is here! Featuring killer poems from Eric Tran, Emily O&#8217;Neill, Beyza Ozer, Anna Meister &amp; many more, as well as the ***flawless art of Sara M. Lyons (pictured above). Check it out &amp; feel free to share!

The new issue of FreezeRay Poetry is here! Featuring killer poems from Eric Tran, Emily O’Neill, Beyza Ozer, Anna Meister & many more, as well as the ***flawless art of Sara M. Lyons (pictured above). Check it out & feel free to share!

Maybe Summer isn’t dead after all. Maybe Summer has just dug a hole in the dirt somewhere & is ready to lay down for a while & dream of all the things that happen while Summer is gone. Bones turn into trees. We manage to stay warm. Wings disappear.
from my poem, “Do You Hear Those Crows,” published in the first issue of The Harpoon Review!

I am so proud of the amazing women in my poetry community & their bravery in sharing these stories.

I am horrified & disgusted & heartbroken & angry that this has gone on, is going on, & in a community I hold so dear, that I have felt so accepted & fostered & loved by.

I am horrified & disgusted & heartbroken & angry that folks have suffered & continue to suffer all while there are rushing to the side of abusers instead of victims.

I am horrified & disgusted that there are men out there who still refuse to listen. 

As a new, growing member in the poetry world, I don’t know what to say, except that I am listening.

Except that I am listening, & examining how I affect those around me, & examining & how I can best offer my support & love for those hurt by the very community that should have been a welcoming, safe space.  

I am listening. 

Damn. We’ve got work to do. 

I Don’t Feel Brave


I’m so tired of this. And this. And this. Ad nauseam. It never stops. I’m afraid it will never stop.

I’ve spoken to very few people about the details of my relationship with my abusive ex-boyfriend. How, over the span of two years, he never cared about consent, how “rape fantasies” were just another way for him to legitimize control over my body while he held his hand over my mouth, how he threw tantrums when I said I didn’t want to have sex and managed to have sex with me anyway, about how haunted I still feel about letting him do this to me, that maybe it wasn’t so much “rape” in many cases as I just felt too beat down emotionally to say “no,” that maybe I owed him constant sex because he was my boyfriend, how I suffered a six-month yeast infection from birth control side effects and how when I went off birth control he still refused to wear a condom, how he promised to pull out and didn’t, how I had to take Plan B twice because he wouldn’t wear a condom and wouldn’t pull out, how he coerced me into sexual acts that made me bleed on the sheets, that left wounds and scars, how he expressed disapproval over how I dressed, how he wanted me to dress like a trophy girlfriend while telling me he loved me and it was all for me, how he coerced me to cut my hair a certain way, how we took a 10-hour train to Montreal and he was turned away at the border because of a rape conviction he had never told me about and wasn’t allowed to leave the country, how we took a bus back to New York in the middle of the same night, how I believed he didn’t do it even though he had already raped me repeatedly, how I denied even that fact, how he ignored me the whole bus trip back to New York because I had asked 6 hours earlier if we were taking the right bus (and how dare I question his authority), how I started making myself throw up before going to parties with him so I could stay home alone in my bed, how when I moved to Massachusetts for grad school and broke up with him he threatened to kill me, sent me a box full of things I had given him, including shirts he wore with phrases scrawled in red ink like “this is what I wore when we first met,” “this is what I wore when I first knew I loved you,” screamed “rot in hell” over and over on the phone, and “this hurts worse than when my dad died,” how I had to give campus police a photo just in case he came to town to make good on his death threat (he helped me move so knew where I lived), etc., etc., the details wear on and on and on.

Most of the time I am too sick to write about this, even to myself; instead, it is a running catalogue in my brain I try to puzzle through, sort out, try to stop blaming myself for all the times I could have walked away. It is difficult to walk away when someone says “I love you, and you’re making me a better person,” “I will be a better person,” “I love you more than anything.” It’s difficult to walk away when the person you love isn’t abusive or terrible all the time, and can fool everyone else in your life into thinking he is a charming, caring person. How I am told that relationship rape and assault and psychological manipulation aren’t “as bad” as rape from a stranger, that it is somehow not legitimate, that I should have known better. I’m so sick of living with this, and I’m sick of other women living with it, and I’m sick of the backlash women get for speaking out. I am speaking out. 

I recently ran a background check on him, and found out he moved back to Oklahoma where he grew up. A small wave of relief washed over me. Maybe now I can go back to New York without having a panic attack every single time? But that’s obviously such a small part of it. I will be living with this relationship the rest of my life, and fuck him for that.


ACTUALLY—if you’re annoyed by my constant shouting about this women’s safety//rape, i suggest you keep fucking following me. and look inward. and think about what you’re doing to contribute to rape culture. and about what you’re doing with your body. and your brain. and your power. and your voice. 

you want me to be quiet? fuck you. i’ll shut up when my girlfriend—an aunt to a 3 month old baby girl—doesn’t have to tell me ‘it’s not a matter of if a women will be sexually assulted. it’s a matter of when.i’ll shut up when my friend natalie can ride her bike down the street without being told ‘i hope you get raped.’ I’ll shut up when a brilliant 18 year old girl doesn’t have to live in fear of her rape story going public (and by the way it did) because ‘she doesn’t want to break her fathers heart.’ i’ll shut up when i don’t have to read sentences like ‘imagined what it would be like to be raped violently. I tried to feel grateful that he wasn’t hitting, punching, stabbing, or suffocating me.’ 

you want me to be quiet? fuck you. i will shut up when you stop raping women.


Jacob van Loon
Mini Stations (Temples)

The newest addition to the Stations series is an elaboration on my experience with architecture being both redundant and new. Death (redundancy) occurs with passive observation of the same space over time. Rebirth (new perception) is a conscious decision to enter and exit the same space with the understanding it cannot be the same twice. 


looking up



looking up