february ’26 issue

Mimico Station

This is the obsession people talk about. It cost the
deepest parts of you. Settles into the bones into
your soul.

No power, no amount of money or blood shed
could ever replace it with something else.

It cuts through you, ruins you. Utterly and
completely.

Breaking you into a million pieces to bleed out.

in a bathroom stall.

of a subway station.

next to your apartment.

on a Tuesday.

by mverutis
Hamilton, ON

Head Full of Water

Head full of water
Like my head full of water
I only care about what’s brand new
But that’s me
All skin
And skin deep
Used to be time was crucial
But now I could just sleep
For twenty one out of twenty four
If I thought I could get away with it
Like so many other things
I just lie
Lie like it’s the end of the world
And all that’s at stake
Isn’t my integrity
It’s yours
And my head full of water
Like a head full of water

I only care about
What’s in your pockets
But that’s just me
All skin
And skin deep
Used to be faith was crucial
But not for faithless like me
Not for bastards like me
And now they’re one in five
By your nineteenth birthday
Like so many other things
It’s not me praying
It’s just me hearing
What I want to
Through a head full of water
Like my head full of water
I only care about your next one
But that’s me
All skinned
And skin deep

by Adria DiMaggio
Guelph, ON

Untitled

i asked the ferryman how long till summer
replying “none may know the seasons tidings”
i asked again, if this boat will take me. once more the ferryman repeated his sentence.
We stood silent, as the sunlight broke the clouds. I watched the tide, beckon forth and retreat upon the beach; spectacles of light reflected on the shiny stones & shells scattered on the sand; the waves pulled up past the pillars of the pier, water passing between the boards; gulls crying as the light became slivers amongst the grey cast skies. peering at the weathered ferryman, i felt a worry.

“when does the ferry depart?” The ferryman turned. and looked right into my own.
“would that it may. Are you ready to board?”
the ferrymans gaze returned to the darkening clouds. The gulls had spied and fled, calls smaller and smaller, the echoes reached.
“you may turn and ride on every good break, for all ports and waves will call you home”

by JdV
Hamilton, ON

3am

Cherry coke at 3am for the pills I can’t
swallow without it.

Unlock and lock the doors for the man I
know will eventually find it.

Woken up at 3am for the phantom
earthquake that will only ever reach me in it.

Half a pack a day for the voices that scream
for me to end it.

Cover the mirrors for the little girl that’s
drowning in my memories of it.

Peanut butter should make me sick for how
much I’ve ate it.

But as with cherry coke, I can’t go without it.

by mverutis
Hamilton, ON

examination of the epstein crime scene photos

before we list the crimes we note the items: generally, we note on every wall a neatly hung nude photo, most of the women posing lazily, their limbs draping into liminal space like a lifeless body floating across a river. ophelia was so beautiful when she drowned: surrounded by flowers, river water seeping gently into her translucent dress. for every unsettling piece of outdated furniture in an empty room or clear bottle of lube lined up neatly on a shelf with the others, we find those flowers:

a wall-mounted statue of a tiny leg slipping into a pink ballet slipper

a painting of a lady with red pumps

a crucifix

hydrangeas on the balcony

baby blue slippers, white fuzzy pom poms adorning each foot

a grand piano

milky white beach shells atop a large wooden shelf

we may wonder how many girls wore those baby blue slippers, how many glanced at the statue on the wall of the bathroom as they scrubbed their dirty hands, how many stared at the crucifix while their face was half-buried in the carpet. girls are stalked by sweetness for all their pain, failing to shed delicateness. how many girls prayed? what is a church without stained glass windows and lace-trim alter cloths?

we note a photo of the financier holding a young girl in his arms like a baby. we remember that Epstein was Cosmopolitan magazine’s “bachelor of the month” in the July 1980 issue, we ponder on how neatly powerful names fit under big black lines, we wonder how many girls crumbled like a sugar cube. before discussing the crimes we examine one last item: a spiral bound notebook, on one page, one word written in pen ink:

TEMPLE

by McKenzie Cline
Hamilton, ON