A headless swan. The scent of fresh blue jasmine, and a neverland of neutrinos. The Windmill as a Variation on Stonehenge, matrixial borderspace, imaginary gravity, enraged toddlers, Bruegel’s Icarus, and a little sugar “to take away the bitter.” All this and more in this CALYX LIVE reading of poets, writers and a visual artist! To

“I dream my own death
My family downstairs—
translucent, spilling light,
watching TV with the volume high.”

“In the city of Hida, there is an
underground mine, dark nest for a stainless
steel observation tank. Deep below sand,
rock, soil: a way to know stars—yes, of course.”

“His father called me exotic.
I was 17 and flattered;
I wanted to wear that word,
I longed to flatten into it.”

“I reached out for you this morning. A call
I haven’t made in a long, long time. Not since—
because of course I know—I do… and yet”

“The baby’s dragged the sheets to the kitchen, and now she’s stuffing them into the washer.
One hand lifting a wad of yellow cotton,
the other reaching down for more and more.
Breathing heavy, she’s feeding vast swaths by the armful, bent halfway
into the mouth of the machine.
A strip of skin exposed where her shirt’s ridden up.
An edge of diaper sticking out of her pants.
Who can watch a child and not feel fear?”

Tuesday, March 24 at 8 p.m. ET / 5 p.m. PT | Join us on Zoom here. Sisterhood in Print: Celebrating 50 Years of CALYX Press! Since 1976, CALYX Press has been a bold, unwavering force in feminist publishing—amplifying the voices of women, including lesbian and queer women—even when doing so meant standing firm in the

“The bride and groom grinned the way we did then, “The hash has been hand pressed with tea
into little cakes,
then heated over coals
by the gardener in the backyard
of your hotel in Kabul.”
with a mouth full of promise,
believing that even when it finally got dark,
our hearts would glow fluorescent,
for we had stopped the world from spinning
and would always be together just like this.”

“On February 28, 1979, I got dressed for another day of sixth grade in my newest blue jeans, a knit sweater, and a red satin coat Mom and I had found at Second Act used clothing. I loved that shiny red coat with the wide buckle, but I never wore any of those things again.
Coming home from school, I’d left the 6 far down the platform on the first warm, spring-is-coming day. I felt good. It hadn’t been long since Lindsay had stopped taking me, and it was the very first trip where I felt I can do this! This is my neighborhood, and I belong here, too!
I got off that train and made the mistake of letting my good mood show. I accidentally smiled at a boy on the platform. (Stupid! I’d believe afterwards. You never ever smile.)”

“The bride and groom grinned the way we did then,
with a mouth full of promise,
believing that even when it finally got dark,
our hearts would glow fluorescent,
for we had stopped the world from spinning
and would always be together just like this.”

Reproductive Rites: Writing the Right to Choose – A Series of 4 Generative Writing Workshops Presented on Zoom by CALYX Press, Facilitated by Laura Rosenthal This series of four generative writing workshops and a final group reading will support participants interested in writing about reproductive choices and experiences, regardless of genre. We invite both experienced

CALYX is excited to feature an exploratory new interview with novelist Jean Hegland. Hegland’s new novel, Here in This Next New Now, a companion book to her 1996 debut, Into the Forest, has been released in France. Debbra Palmer’s interview with Hegland covers a wide range of topics, including dystopian themes, fire, taboo, community, gender,

Our very first CALYX Live reading brought the powerful voices of women writers off the page and into the Zoom room—and we’re still glowing. To everyone who joined us: thank you. Your presence, your listening, your applause—it meant everything. To our readers: your words lit the room with courage, truth, and artistry. You reminded us

“On the walk home redwings shrill as you hum the “Bogoró ditse” (sixth movement, “Rejoice, O Virgin”), which starts in a slow, solemn whisper and then soars into an exalted alto duet. You would love to sing that duet, but Fred will recruit professionals. You altos joke that Rachmaninoff must have had an alto mistress, because the Vespers gives all the gorgeous melodies to them. The sopranos, who normally get all the gorgeous melodies, joke that they don’t mind being your accessories, but they do.
You tie your raincoat around your waist. The sticky things pull, which makes you hunch over, which makes you think about old age. A rare sunny day in a birdy wetland—at least you’ll be able to do this when you’re old. You think, I suppose it’s time to think about death.
And that’s enough of that.” 

“This morning I watched a kinglet
—a bird so quick it often evades
human gaze—flit only a foot
from my husband’s face. I watched
the corners of his eyes lift.”

“Dark still. Her father loads her arms with bottles of the Jersey’s milk,
and wordless, turns her out under the stern Iowa stars.
She is hardly taller than the snowdrifts.
Stocking-capped head down, she sets out to meet the disapproving wind.”

“Dark still. Her father loads her arms with bottles of the Jersey’s milk,
and wordless, turns her out under the stern Iowa stars.
She is hardly taller than the snowdrifts.
Stocking-capped head down, she sets out to meet the disapproving wind.”

“The speaker of the poem, “V. Simon the Cyrene,” admits, On all sides I am jostled / by witnesses of an execution. / They say the man had a knife / and the guards shot him down. Drawing poetic (if sobering) parallels between the Nazarene and the dead man (both killed by the state), Watson experiences painful realities that probably more closely resemble those of marginalized communities in first-century Jerusalem than the canonical Gospels portray.” 

“Gauging others’ happiness by her own preference for company, Will’s mom took Will’s introversion for depression. Her mom always nudged her to make friends. Meet boys. Make boyfriends. Will wondered if teen pregnancy would’ve set her mom at ease, convinced her of Will’s joie de vivre and put to rest her insistence on the pixie cut.” 

Thursday, May 15th – Zoom5:30-7:00 pm Pacific – 8:30-10:00 pm Eastern———->>> Zoom Registration – This is a free event <<<———- Join us for an insightful panel discussion exploring the resilience, creativity, and necessity of women’s voices in times that challenge artists and writers. New York Times Best Selling Author, Eula Biss, is the author of

CALYX Press has decided to leave Twitter X and make the move to BlueSky, a rapidly growing social platform. As a feminist press that has been publishing works of literature by women, trans, and non-binary writers for over 50 years, CALYX has always valued creating spaces for dialogue, connection, and inspiration. The decision to shift

“Each page I turn arouses memories,
ghosts mustering in my tiny office,
bumping each other and crowding me” 

“Throughout the jiggling trip, stopping and starting, grumbling motor, people getting on and off, trees and ocean whizzing by, I ignore it all to administer the silent treatment to Nick. He’s acting like he doesn’t notice the thousand cuts from my icy glares, but he’ll find out I’m not playing. Today I’m returning Nick to his parents.” 

“Anna to the left
and Anna to the right,
wild mice,
two halves of an apple.
Now it is time to make a wish:
May this be our last visit here.” 

“Poetry never saved anyone from death, though it might have helped a few to go on living.”

“Fleshy apples cave as winter arrives early
one October afternoon.

Even the cranes gorging
their hard corn in the fields
seem bewildered.”

“My father’s ashes
sit on a bookcase,
waiting for a promised trip
to San Francisco,
where he spent the
best years
of his life.”

“I read this collection shortly after the sudden death of one of my best friends. I picked it up, even though I didn’t feel any spark for art. I started reading in the bath. Then I was on the bathroom floor, water cold, a little shocked to return to myself in human form, holding a book.” 

“We leave in a respected line
wearing red:
We’ve been sent good weather,
orange fish that flip over beneath the bridge,
a building of rust-colored brick that you exit as if from your body.
You can’t have everything.
No one has everything.” 

“he needs
to quit drinking before he dies
of it. He says he hasn’t driven
in nine months, that he’s been
losing friends and took today
off work to get his act together.
I ask how he plans to stop
and he says he’s just going to.”

“Woman Pissing takes Picasso’s bravado-soaked declaratives and subjects those claims to a bloodletting. Cooperman’s narrator invokes Julian Barnes’ assertion that Picasso dramatically simplified art. One page later Cooperman demonstrates thus: Because Bonnard kept watching the sky, it became a dozen different colors. / How hilarious that Bonnard cannot paint a sky blue! thought Picasso.”

“My mother hangs up
in the midst of conversation
without saying good-bye.

Her father fled Germany
to secure family passage
eventually. “

“And afterward, we’ll say
it was good, how much we
like how it feels, as our hands
rub the back of our heads.
Then we’ll embrace, relishing
the feel of one another.”

Forgive me if the books I might have written linger like a miscarriage.
That word—as in miscarriage of justice—and what is justice now

that the surprise quickening of my youngest might have felt
less blessing than sentence. I had a choice, and still somedays

I lament the sentence I’ve been given and not given.

“I’m with you tonight at the candlelight
service in my new straw hat, Mary Janes,

white gloves, a dress that you’ve sewn,
the whole congregation holding candles

at midnight.”

“For her to have achieved more renown, I wonder if Gus would have had to be more pushy, more self-centered, more sure of herself. Or maybe she just needed to have been born a hundred years later. But she was herself, in her own time. My mother, who was a writer, had to make similar choices in her life. And I have too, trying, not always gracefully, to balance being married, having a child, and making a living with the commitment to a creative life.”

“What
to do on that unexceptional Sunday, our kids already swim-suited

and seat-belted, but go on, go on, and drive to Door County.
The rest of the ride silent except for my sounds, no one sure

if they’re allowed to have fun until they’re finally loosed
to the shadow-sharp air, their calls and accidental laughter

high as the wind-buoyed gulls.”

Friday, April 19: 5-7pm The Benton County Historical Society is hosting an opening reception for artist Betty LaDuke’s newest exhibit, Bringing the World Together at the Philomath Museum (1101 Main Street Philomath, Oregon). LaDuke will give a short talk about her work at 6pm. LaDuke’s current exhibitions focus on social justice from multiple perspectives, with

“The time I’d planned to hike the rim to rim to rim of the Grand Canyon with three athletic friends—all non-menstruating fellows—only to wake at four AM and find myself bleeding and no protection (it was way too early, but you know it kind of shows up when it wants anyway), and one of their girlfriends, who wasn’t hiking with us, when I whispered to her, only had a slender regular. A. Slender. Regular. Right. Which I took, of course.”

“In these years of unrelenting
loss, I have practiced restoration
with you.”

“Sometimes death
takes you by the throat, like burning leaves choke
and ochre light hangs thick as draperies across your living
room window where a slice of sky slips through
to remind you get outside, take a walk, breathe.”

“Dress you
as you prefer, in men’s clothes—no rush
or pressure, pleasure in the long look,
the urge for color, then touch—”

“That afternoon, I pretended
to be a cat—tabby, kinked tail.
And the finches behaved
accordingly.”

“Frida’s Boots beats too with life and determination. In many of Robbins’ poems there is an appreciation for the moment at hand, the pleasure in the everyday experiences, and the heightened awareness that it is all temporary.”

“Always, I begin
with nothing and too much
to say.”

The third entry in the Writing Queer Joy Workshop, an online series presented by CALYX Press.