Anser
Journal

For those Sunday afternoons caught between doing nothing and everything,
for the insomnia-driven, for the wanderers and wonderers,
for the unwritten stories of a blank page: please—tell us your story.

Blue Moon Town

“And now I’m still going. I tread on down this endless highway with only my feet to guide me, as the stars above me grow unsteady. They tremble every so often, as the moon fades out and loosens its grip on the skies.”

By Ainara Ibarrondo

Three Poems

“On the farm, / she has me place / the yellow flower / on my timid, / city slicked tongue. /
It is delicate and sweet. / Are you eating squash blossoms or stars?”

By Abby Bland

Tiptoe.

“A lifetime ago, before the earth tiptoed around the sun, I sat by the fire with a book in my hands. It was a book
about oceans, salt, and old gods reaching their hands into the new world.”

By Alyson Tait

The cougar expands her red mouth

“After so much stalking, / after so much waiting, my body’s secrets traverse the sky. / I shiver with the
lightness / of lost lies, wanting more, a bird nest untangled.”

By Lynn Finger

a summer fling that could have been

“we dance around the words for weeks, / sidestepping goodbye in the hallway / because i still run into you in the kitchen every morning / and watch you making toast. / you cross your arms as the bread darkens, / morning sunlight stitched into your ponytail.”

By Zoe Cunniffe

Utopia

“if butterflies were / climatologists, we would have solved global warming by now. if we too sensed everything in the / air around us, if we let the earth move our bodies instead of changing the ground beneath our / feet, we would be a planet of beautiful things”

By Maia Joy

Hand/Foot

“He runs his hands down braille arms, rests his fingers inside hand-painted indents stretching taut against my hips.
You’re so beautiful, he says, why haven’t we done this before?”

By Magi Sumpter

I wished on my eyelash and my father built my closet with his bare hands

“My mothers side of the closet empty, the shoulders swallow sympathy for the living. I hate / talking... the palm tree watches me as it suffocates with smoke. Does the rain know it / evaporates? I hope they don’t let me die at my funeral.”

By Tanya Castro

Looking for
old work?

We group all our writing by the month in which they were published;
to view work from previous months, check out our archives page.

Your Work Here.

We’re always looking for new pieces to be published in Anser Journal. We’ll respond to all submissions within one week.