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Rabbit's Storytelling Throne AnkhLave Arts Alliance chose me as one of six Summer 2020 fellows for a socially distanced artist residency at the Queens Botanical Garden in Flushing, NY. This included setting up an outdoor installation, participating in documentary interviews, and preparing work for eventual indoor gallery display. The photos here depict my installation, "Rabbit's Storytelling Throne," on site at the botanical garden's Crabapple Grove.
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The Day the Little Lamb RoaredBy Amy Rohrbaugh  Once there lived a little lamb that was different from all the rest. Her name was Lilly. Every day at school, Mrs. Ewe would teach the lambs how they should behave. The first lesson was about always staying in the group. She taught that it was very important for them to stick together and never wander off. But Lilly had big dreams.
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Ileana
By Jeanne Shannon
*Editor's Note: This piece was previously published in The Mystic Muse. 
She would walk into the house and see ghosts. She would catch the merest glimpse of them as they dissolved into the white flowers, the white arum lilies in the garden beyond the French windows.
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Parsnips
By Jeanne Shannon
*Editor's Note: This piece was previously published in Trickster. 
There once was a man who hated parsnips. He hated them as much as his wife loved them. She loved their tawny yellowness (a yellow he called sickly), their feel of autumn, of winter and “root vegetable.” Yellow carrots, she sometimes called them, though she knew this was not what they wished to be called. And besides, hadn’t she seen real carrots that were yellow instead of orange?
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S h e D i e sBy Laura Deluca  It’s like how they say
You can still hear the ocean in a seashell The echoes of what once was, who didn’t stay Still mercilessly linger and swell The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I Scratch Her Back, She Tears Mine to Shreds
By Laura Deluca
I tuck my Trauma into bed beside me,
Kiss her forehead and braid her hair Nurture through reading her a nightly tragedy I take great care of her, I swear The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
If It Takes ForeverBy Angelica Sokolovskaya  Down by the rhododendron thicket, by the bank of the river that divided the village in two, under the plum tree laden with late summer fruit is where he first kissed her. The sun burnt their skin even in the shade, but they took no notice of it, as young love knows not how to be prudent. For months they kept coming back to this idyll, their refuge away from the prying eyes of the village folk, as they knew it was dishonorable for them to consort in such a manner: she was from a respectable family, and he was not.
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Girls Like You
By Megha Rao
Girls like you flood the bathtub crying.
Girls like you fight like your fists are electric shavers. Girls like you get so angry you throw punches at your ex’s ghosts. Rip the pillows atom to atom, until the cotton begs for mercy. All fangs, all riot, all bloodshed. Do it. Keep doing it. When they tell you to shut up, thaw your teeth trying to close your mouth. Every day is a goddamn feel fest. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
a garden of flowersBy Manisha Mahalingam  I know a girl
who fostered a garden inside her every morning, when the sun rose she would sit out in the open soaking in the warmth filtering light into her soul- to help her garden photosynthesize, she said. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I Am Not a Man's MetaphorBy Megha Rao  I am not a man’s metaphor.
I am poems on resistance and blood. |
