<![CDATA[vulnerary magazine

TRIGGER WARNING: allusions and visual representations of bruising, illness, teeth, blood, skin-picking, meat, domestic violence, childhood trauma, loss. things that hurt to write.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY VICTORIA ZEOLI

click images to expand

photo 00000 - Rebecca Gooch
photo 00001 - Julie Wittenburg @j.wlie
photo 00002 - Jackie Hoag @jackiebhoag, makeup - Bray Mua @face_beaterr
photo 00003 - May Mesleh @_xxmay
photo 00004 - Jeffrey Anderson @jeffreymichaelanderson
photo 00005 - Chelsea Evans @chelseaaliceevans

My name is Victoria. I have been passionately pressing buttons on a camera since I was 14. I got my start in fashion when I was very young, frequently traveling to NYC and Miami for work. I even had a little article written about my work in Dazed and Confused. I am driven by nostalgia. I find my inspiration specifically comes from childhood memories, vintage roadside Americana, liminal spaces, 60's and 70's art cinema, and my own rural and suburban living experiences. In my process I like to blend film, digital, and mixed media to create saturated colors and a dreamy light headed effect in my photographs. I'd like to think my photography exists in a parallel universe, a cinematic and quiet place. I seek to turn the familiar into fantasy, shopping malls and dollar stores are as beautiful to me in the background of a portrait as a flowering tree. I aim to find comfort in the mundane everyday spaces that we unconsciously travel through in life.

poetry by bee lb

to face myself

i try to avoid mirrors, but i’m drawn
to them. i arrange my feet at odd angles to keep
me away from them when we share a room.

we often share a room.
there is a mirror across from my bed,
above the sink in my bathroom,
facing the toilet and the shower in the second
bathroom. sometimes i close my eyes.

sometimes i crane my neck away.
sometimes i peer between my fingers
at the odd shapes my body makes.

i pick at the dead skin on my lips til they
bleed. i pry open my pores, pinch out the pus.
i pull taut the hairs on my chin, jaw, the curve of my neck.
slice them with scissors and wait for them to grow back.

i smooth out my eyebrows. pick eyelashes
fallen to my cheek and blow out a wish into the empty air.

i look at my tired eyes. i wonder what’s behind them.

i look at the fraying ends of my long hair. i chop haphazardly
over the sink. i watch my cheeks bulge with mouthwash,
my lips thin and turn blue from their stretch.

i slip a nail in the dead space between tooth and filling.
try to remember how many days are left before my dental premiums
roll over. i trace the soft line of nerve damage from bottom lip
to jaw. i pinch the fat soft beneath my chin. i squish the fat of my stomach,
suck in until i see ribs, then let go until i see my body as it is.

i turn off the light. i close the door. i move the mirror
so it doesn’t face my bed. move the mirror so it doesn’t face
the door. consider turning the mirror around so i am not faced
with myself. ask myself why i spent real money on something i don’t need.

i turn around and around so i am not faced with myself. i hide
from myself. i cower beneath the weight of myself. i open myself up
just to see what’s inside. i close my eyes. press my ruined nails
against the thin skin over my eyes. i wipe the grease
from my face. i bite my tongue. i peel the skin
from my lips. i close my eyes so i am not faced with
myself. i face myself with my eyes closed.

BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; a porcelain pierrot with a painted face. they collect champagne bottles, portraits of strange women, and diagnoses. they've been published in G*Mob, MOODY, Landfill, and The Racket, among others. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co

poetry by ingrid m. calderon-collins

i bleed over everyone
hoping someone will offer up their wrists
hoping someone will gladly bleed with me

this is a metaphor,
for friendship—
an unruffled camaraderie of chaos & wild repose
where bile is biblical

in that storm
a boat sails to harbor
engulfed by an army
of every puncture
stirred and cracked

i am grieving
for the woman
who gave herself
to men who looked exactly
like her hate

what am I, if not my anxiety?

i’ve outgrown,
outreached

a tightness controls
the soundtrack of my teeth

the belt of love strikes,

(finish what you started)

no rite of passage
no genocides,
we dig our own
we scratch away the dirt
so the sting hurts less

Ingrid M. Calderón-Collins is a poet and tarot reader. She is the author of twenty-five poetry books. She lives in Los Angeles, CA.

photographs & poetry by robin goodfellow

canon snappy 50 from 1982 on expired kodak gold 200 35mm film

unsavoury

and it's just a realtree jacket size XXL
layered over a 50 year old torn thrift store dress (white)
it's necklaces of real bones and plastic rosaries
Japanese eyeliner and American cigarettes

and it's just that ache to drive hours (alone)
forest service roads and billboards for burgers and God
it's reservation gas stations and pink lighters
it's CBC radio and Norwegian black metal

and it's just small town gun stores and hockey arenas
cotton candy lip balm and cases of beer
antique dolls and muddy thrift stores
and it's spending too much money on the perfect vintage dress

and it's just frontier churches and disposable cameras
Starbucks and a stack of VHS tapes
a wood-panelled house and strawberry incense
that doesn't quite cover the smell of old carpet and VCR head cleaner
the rot

robin goodfellow is a hopeless dabbler from british columbia, canada. the wood panelled house she grew up in, the bookshelves crammed with faery stories and lurid true crime novels mixed with slowly decaying vhs tapes are her inspiration. she is a penitent podcaster and blogger, and spends a lot of time haunting every thrift shop and antique store in western canada. she exists at many crossroads, and can usually be found becoming mediocre at many hobbies all at the same time.

poetry by gina tron

Clone

The older a memory is
the more that me feels like a different person
and so I allow them more leniency
unlike with present me
I want to be back where they are

Now that I can see how good they are
as a separate form of cells
watching cartoons on couch ribbed blue
I can wish them love
instead of ripping them apart.

Gina Tron is the author of several books, including her newest memoir "Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder." In 2014, Interview Magazine called her debut memoir "You're Fine." "vibrant, darkly funny, and courageously candid." Her 2020 poetry book “Star 67” contains a poem that has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She wrote true crime for Oxygen for six years and wrote reported pieces for various outlets, including The Washington Post, VICE, Politico, and The Daily Beast. She is an adjunct professor at Norwich University in Vermont, and edits copy about substance use disorder and mental health. You can find more of her work at her website: ginatron.net

poetry by alex tretbar

Anxiety IV

1.
An influential sire, a well-known story, a
history it captures. It is only logical to end
at the beginning, and although some might say
that would be the first importation, we prefer
to flow in the veins of nearly every industry
forever. Anxiety died young, and against
the recommendations of his owner, the two
men bought his progeny.

2.
Came then Anxiety IV, the carefully planned revolutionary thinker.
Came then methods met with criticism, rangemen who loved the unusually strong
hindquarters. Unable to compete, pedigrees fizzled out. 99% of all Americans
are responsible for there being a[n] [beef] industry, unlearned, firmly fixed
in the hands of these same two men, a bloodline trending in reverse--
increasing the carcass’s value.

3.
photograph of portal to Texas
either Climax V or Anxiety IV
the town got its name from this herd
one photograph: negative, b&w, 6 x 7 cm
1900~ creator unknown person who
is significant in some way to the content
of this photograph, audiences may find
this portal useful in their small
rooms, 6 x 7 cm, negative, b&w
funding provided in part by Populism,
the New South, the Great Depression,
what responsibilities do I have
when using this photograph

4.
Since 1944 we’ve been breeding straight-bred Anxieties
in the western hemisphere, and possibly the entire world.
Consistent and constant selection pressure that functions
very well on forage. We are a partnership, already named,
arguably the most efficient animal this side of the dark
ages, and our work positions an expanding national
population, hereby ensuring protein to the populous [sic].

-

A note on the text: Anxiety IV was a legendary steer from whose loins the modern Kansas City beef industry sprung, but his history is a complicated one, not easily tracked, and appears to intertwine with another steer, Climax V. Documents suggest that there was not just one “Anxiety IV” but more than 9,000. “Anxiety IV 9904” is commonly cited as the specific bull imported from England in 1881, the so-called “Father of American Herefords,” a product of linebreeding who was himself integrated into American linebreeding practices.

The poem is a combined erasure and recomposition of the following sources:

1. “Anxiety IV,” Sara Gugelmeyer, Hereford World, pages 38 & 40, July 2008
2. “Anxiety IV,” Sara Gugelmeyer, Hereford World, pages 38 & 40, July 2008
3. Image description, https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth3434/
4. Website for “Lents Anxiety 4th Herefords, The Fountainhead Of Anxiety 4th Blood In Its Most Pure Form,” https://www.anxietyherefords.com/

Alex Tretbar won the 2022 PEN America Prison Writing Contest in Poetry, and was a finalist for the 2021 PEN/Edward Bunker Prize in Fiction. His manuscript Kansas City Gothic was selected as a finalist for the 2023 Wolfson Press Poetry Chapbook Competition, and his work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Colorado Review, Iterant, Full Stop, and elsewhere. As a Writers for Readers Fellow with the Kansas City Public Library, he teaches free writing classes to the community and assists with the Maya Angelou Book Award. He is an MFA candidate at the University of Missouri–Kansas City. You can find him online at alextretbar.com, and on Twitter and Instagram @alex_tretbar.

poetry by chris blexrud

Postnasal

The drip is not for us,
we are for it—what came alive
those nights, the dreams
in our throats, a great
conspiracy to set aside
our pain only to
better preserve it

-

Cotton Dream

maybe it’s softer
whatever comes next

you’ll be so loved there
and float right through it

making up for everything
that happened to you here

Chris Blexrud is a writer and librarian living in Albuquerque.

art by caitlin mccormack

&

poetry by chris mccreary

Images of my work, which were photographed in Spring 2021 on the forested grounds of ChaNorth Artist Residency in Pine Plains, NY. The urn piece depicted in two images is entitled "Origin Story" (crocheted cotton string, foraged pigment, and glue on velvet-covered mixed-media assemblage with synthetic fringe) and the bird skeleton made of plants is entitled "Prince of Nothing" (crocheted cotton string, foraged pigment, and glue on velvet-covered wood). Accompanied by poetry by frequent collaborator and friend Chris McCreary.

Dysmorph

1.
Extra portion for clean
plate
for quiet
side clung at edge yet
slid then in reward
or
error I’ll incohere
to nuisance
wound a shame
made
most craven given
retrogress.

2.
What broke open won't
close
clothes again
unfit in apple imaged
mirror bitten then
emptied
bitter tossed to soften
dissolving
rotten under
tongue.

Unearthlings

Second person
or third, you're an alien

either way orbiting disjoint
& perturbed in eclipse’s fading

in faded he exfoliates
exsanguinates peels back the cataract

& climbs inside. Curtains drawn
against neon flashing.

Necessity compels the obsequities
& compounds of chamomile & mandrake,

poppy procured for proper sleep. The aether
bleached. Proceed to the glad hand as

the rubber band snaps : discard, donate,
dismantle action figures for later

repair. Streets disappear only to resume
in adjacent neighborhoods.

The platform stretches as you dash
for the farthest car. All conversation

becomes a cover song regifted,
prayers wasted on the dire porcupine

afraid to dance. Everybody’s
busy & beleaguered & everybody’s beset

by all manner of calamitous etc.
Everything’s 45 minutes away. Labyrinth

as circle pit. Finger puppet as skeleton
banished to the cabinet. What passeth

as scarcity of provision proves thick
& brackish in titration or lapse

into what remnants clung unto guts.
Auratic night light, cat

on lap. Rings on the glass hand,
necklace in the dish. Resistance bands

for when wither, bend, for when
stones roll back & other muscles impinge.

Caitlin McCormack is a Philadelphia-based fiber artist whose crocheted works acknowledge a familial, trans-generational tradition of craft and externalize trauma. Positing crochet as a behavioral response to apocalyptic conditions, their sculptures weave an intimate archive of emotive vessels. They have contributed works to solo and group exhibitions at Elijah Wheat Showroom, The Mütter Museum, Museum Rijswijk, Hashimoto Contemporary, The Fort Wayne Museum of Art, Field Projects, and SPRING/BREAK Art Show in NYC. In addition to holding teaching positions in Philadelphia at The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts and Hussian College of Art and Design, McCormack has completed artist residencies at Byrdcliffe Artist Colony, ChaNorth, The Peter Bullough Foundation, and The Wassaic Project.

Chris McCreary is the author of several books and chapbooks, including the chapbook Maris McLamoureary’s Dictionnaire Infernal (Empty Set Press), co-authored with Mark Lamoureux. More recent work appears or is forthcoming in Apartment Poetry, Broken Lens Journal, Cul-de-sac of Blood,Dream Pop, DumDumZine, Fine Print, Graphic Violence, Heavy Feather Review, Resurrection Magazine, Sortes, Voicemail Poems and Works & Days as well as in a previous issue of Vulnerary. He lives in South Philadelphia and can be found on IG at @chris___mccreary.

poetry by arushi (aera) rege

blood, bones, and butter

there’s a heart in my hands,
and blood in my mouth,
and i don’t even know if it's mine.
the heart is, of course,
you would never give yourself so wholly,
not to me.
the blood though.
the blood is confusing,
because i don’t know if it’s yours,
or if its mine,
or if you want it back from me.

my ribcage is cut open,
in perfect strips,
filets that only a chef like you would know,
though you always claim to be terrible in the kitchen.
you’ve ripped out my heart,
and forced my mouth open,
and maybe there’s blood in my mouth now,
i learnt early that it tastes like bullets and pain and love.

my friend thinks this is a war,
a battle to be fought.
something to be won.
i think it’s love,
after all, love and war are the same concept.
only a person in love would succumb to war,
just as i have.

you tell me that i am blood, bones, and butter,
blood, because i am painful,
because i am in pain,
because nobody could love me until i give them me,
because at the end of the day,
the blood that you give me,
the blood that i give you,
the blood we share,
the blood in my mouth,
that is what matters.
not whose blood it is.

you tell me that i am blood, bones, and butter,
bones, because i am hollow
because i am empty,
because you must take your sweet time to shape me,
and reshape me,
and reshape me,
and i must give, and give, and give,
while you take, and take, and take,
and i give until there is nothing left.
my skeleton is yours to do with, darling.
it was yours when it was mine,
a hollow puppet for you,
and you – the puppet master.

you tell me that i am blood, bones, and butter,
butter, because i am soft,
because i am human,
because i still give myself to you,
the worship has begun, come one come all.
the altar has been set, the offerings given,
you, placed on the pedestal.
butter, because what use is my heart if it isn't yours?
butter, because who am i if not yours?

you tell me that i am blood, bones, and butter,
and that the blood in my mouth,
and the heart in my hands is yours.
after all, everything i am belongs to you.

Arushi (Aera) Rege is a queer, Indian-American poet who simultaneously attends junior year in high school. In their free time, they can be found reading good books, listening to R&B, and stressing over college. They tweet occasionally @academic_core and face the perils of instagram @aeranem_26. Their works have been published in Stone of Madness Press, Full House Literary Magazine, fifth wheel press, and more. You can find their website at arushiaerarege.carrd.co.

CItation poems by j. lynn carr

CITATION #6.5

Skies, Terrible and Broken. Silent Soft and Unfillable Hunger: Finding Yourself. Dark
Places, Words on Our Fingertips: Bereft.

CITATION #9

Soft, Faded Blue. Moss-Covered Oak and Gasoline: Lukewarm Air and A Pale Hug.
Neon Lights That Line Your Face: Lips Holding Slogans, Between Them.

CITATION #10

Demons, Bone-White. Vultures in Winter: Feeding Practices for the Sharp-Beaked. Juicy
Red Hearts: Desserts, Cherry On Top.

J. Lynn Carr is an emerging author who has gained recognition for her fantasy novellas published by Page Thirteen Press. She brings the same sense of mischief and fantasy to her poetry, as she experiments with language and structure. Her first collection of poems is scheduled to be released in early 2024. She lives in Austin, TX with her spouse and two dogs, Freddie Spaghetti and Mildred Cuddlefoot. Follow her on Instagram @pagethirteenpress or check out her website: https://jlynncarr.carrd.co/

poetry by james roach

A Sad Haiku

I almost hit a
deer tonight on my drive home.
I am so touch starved.

Twitter: sober_poet
Instagram: the_jamesiest
LinkTree: https://linktr.ee/wordsmith18

poetry by chris rockwell

Stay Off That Chair

Did you arrive safely?
Was the trip comfortable?
Your body was so cold to the touch
When you left
That we fed you to the fire
Just to keep you warm

But now, your ashes are cold too
And you never wanted to be scattered
Someplace with a hot climate
So here we are
Leaving the doors of your van closed
So your smell doesn't float out
Trying not to sell all your old clothes
Even though we need the money

Sitting in your favorite chair
With a pointlessly tense feeling
Like you could
Walk in the front door any second
And catch us sitting there

None of that matters anymore
But it helps

Chris Rockwell is a spoken word poet and hip-hop artist from the Jersey Shore, and is also Founder and Editor of SOUP CAN MAGAZINE. In 2009, he was the recipient of the Largesse Publishing Award, and as the very first Grand Slam Champion of the legendary Loser Slam, Rockwell has since competed in the National Poetry Slam twice, toured the country, was named Poet Laureate of Asbury Park in 2010, and even went on to be co-founder of the Jersey Shore Poetry Slam. He has published several volumes of music and poetry, his latest being his EP of songs Hey Dennis Thanks a Lot.

art by cecilia mignon

These recent works, crossing processes and media from photo transfer to mounted collage to slip scans, are diaristic explorations of the loss of girlhood of myself and my mother. Through a foggy lens I am asking myself about the way girlhood links me to my mother as I turn into her caretaker, as we dance around our shared memories of my childhood, of hers, and our current moment in a split timeline away from gender and womanhood.

Cecilia Mignon is an interdisciplinary artist based in Oakland, California. Their photo-based work uses alternative processes and mixed media to explore temporality, softness and poetic space. Recently they have completed residencies at MRKT in San Francisco and Kala Art Institute exploring large scale photobased installation. They can be found on instagram as @ceciliamignon, on their website at ceciliamignon.com or lost in transit taking pictures of the roadside flowers.

poetry by simone astrid

axiom of infinity

sorry it took a while to write,
i have so much to tell you.

no longer living in passed moments but
stealing memories for inspiration,
like raiding your closet.
we play hide-and-seek from
either side of the veil—
thin some days, sundays,
nights get easier.

after great indecision i confess i left
your celebration of life well before the end,
it wasn’t the you i carry with me.
in my jacket pocket: platinum / iowa sunshine /
starry eyes / your eye (for aesthetics) / palms
pressed to paperinkgrass like a prayer.
my luck—that infinite universes converged to bring
you into my proximity. this is my version of faith.

visit me in the next life, i’ll clean up the guest room.

Simone is a poet living in Chicago and writing about their queer life. Their work has appeared in Naked Cat, voidspace, and more. Twitter: @simoneapoetry

poetry by devon webb

I'm Sorry

I’m sorry that I’m hurting
I’m sorry that I don’t know how to heal
I’m sorry that I’m mean
& childish
& self-righteous
I’m sorry for being a cunt
I’m sorry that I haven’t done any growing
just disappearing into all the noise in my head
I thought I was doing what was best
but I was just being defensive
I’m sorry that I’m loud
when we both want some quiet
I’m sorry that I burnt it all down
& left us nothing to admire.

Devon Webb is a 25-year-old writer based in Aotearoa New Zealand. She writes full-time, exploring themes of femininity, vulnerability & neurodivergence. She shares her poetry online, through live performance, & has had her work included in over two-dozen publications worldwide. She is the two-time Wellington Slam Poetry Champion & is currently working on the final edits of her debut novel, The Acid Mile. She can be found on Instagram, Twitter, TikTok & Bluesky at @devonwebbnz.

poetry by david hanlon

Childhood As a Forest Fire

Endurance endures and
a million tiny tortures split

I really can see it all now
can’t I?

I suck it in
this stocky forest

its thorny damnation
infernal fire

how many ashes will cleanse it?
will smother its trouncing?

I still jolt-wake in the wreckage
salt-dripping

smoke
pluming from my lips

David Hanlon is a poet from Cardiff, Wales. You can find his work online in over 80 magazines, including Barren Magazine, The Lumiere Review, and trampset. His first chapbook Spectrum of Flight is available at Animal Heart Press. You can follow him on twitter @davidhanlon13 and Instagram @hanlon6944

photographs by Jessica kershaw

Jessica Kershaw is deeply connected to nature & the energy of the universe. She loves to explore spooky places and wander through graveyards. She loves taking road trips and finding strange spots to creep around. You can find her on Instagram @weird_wanderings_

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