Gnashing Teeth Publishing

| words that get in your teeth

When Did I Know? by Maple Scoresby

close up of woman wearing glasses with red listick and straight blond hair with a grey shirt

As long as I can remember, every
star that shot across the sky, every
birthday candle I blew out, came
with the silent wish that I would
wake the next morning as a girl;
even if for just a single day.

I was told wishes don’t come true
if you say them aloud. So I
stayed voiceless. For 30 fucking
years. Quietly wishing. Far past
the point I stopped believing
in magic, just in case.

Turns out magic is real. But for it
to work you have to let your wishes
bubble out of you. You have to
shout them true every moment
of every day. You must cry out:
This is who I am! This is what I am!

I am a girl. -A woman even!
Loud and proud! Not just for
a day, but forever. My wish
came true and the shooting
stars and birthday candles
had nothing to do with it.

Maple Scoresby (she/her) is a trans poet from upstate New York. She has a bachelor’s degree in Psychology and Sexualities Studies, and has worked as a Sexual Educator and a Coaching Specialist. Maple currently resides in Denver, Colorado where she spends her time reading and playing the banjo.

young woman with red hair smiling at the camera with a white paper umbrella behind her

like pretty tulips by linda m. crate

everything has been hard and heavy, as of late; in my world and the world at large— so yesterday i was drinking in small wonders like pretty tulips dancing out

What I Can Offer You by Rich Orloff

I cannot fix your pain I cannot solve your problem I can’t prevent the sorrow you’re feeling Or even guarantee I’ll make you smile However, because I’ve known Joy embracing

by Natalye Childress

*this poem is in .jpg to preserve formatting *this is the unformatted text of the poem after rainer maria rilke you, the poet, have become world weary, word-wrought. and god

guy with a dark beard and moustache wearing a black graphic tee

Orchards of Udders by Jon Wesick

dripped on the blanket while air rustled tamarind trees. Chekhov drank a Thai iced tea and plummeted out of this poem. A flock of circles twittered in the hacksaw bushes


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