“Borders. They can separate and define geographical locations and boundaries. Borders can be literal or invisible to the eye. Politics, language, ideology, philosophy, poetics, religion, family, sexuality, culture, all of these ideas exist within and without borders. What happens when we cross a border? When we step outside our comfort zones or are made to check a box? What happens when we leave it blank?” This summer we put out a call for writers and artists to consider the above words for our final issue of 2019 and my fellow editors and I we were so very pleased by the results. We invite you to step over the divide and immerse yourselves in the pieces found in this new issue of carte blanche, which take on the theme of “Borders” in a multitude of ways: In her sensual audio piece “We Kept On Making Love”, Moe Clark envisions the borders of our bodies and what happens when they melt away into the other, dissolving into a bounty of animals, spirits, and dreams. Or in Mona Awad’s “Monster”, an unnerving feminist modern fairy tale continuously tugs at the edges of our expectations. Natalie Wee’s poem “Frequent Flyer Program” takes on immigration, diaspora, and the divide between the heavens, land, and sea. Read more →
I can name any season, but the trees I love will die where they are. That what it means to become a light year, to become memory: never stay long enough to know belonging the way water’s face knows the sky, the world’s translucent lung—the deadliest mammal & the quietest. Read more →
my drowsy hand crackles the bag full of / braided hair full of braided time. the sun fills my ears and i sweat-dream it out: me, somewhere soon, seen but not noticed, smoothed down and seaglassed. unobstacle to. my eyes, bottle green and just as translucent.
but when we come up on the cyclical impasse back underground at old mill when petey and his peak wicker ensemble insist on making ours an intimate seating arrangement
There was once a woman who went out with a man whom she was pretty sure was going to kill her by the end of the evening. She knew this when she gave him her email address. She might have even told him, email me. Now they’re at an elegant wine bar about three miles from her house, sitting at a table between two tall slim plants with fat, waxy leaves. She takes a sip of the wine that he’s probably filled with drugs. She went to the ladies room a few minutes ago in order to give him a chance to do this. Read more →