By Rhienna Renèe Guedry


Our house is clouded over with milk-water,

knee-deep and thick on account of sand and clay

mixed with what we pretend to not know is sewage

In the driveway two children, raisin-fingered, pluck

objects from the deep of a ditch


What I am here to do is siphon water through

a wet vac, shoo the rest out like a toad with my broom

but my instinct is Ophelian: to make a solitary bath

of the master bedroom—no flowers, please—just drywall

as shards of soap, just lower myself down beneath

the window, to clasp the heavy drag of mauve

drapes like reeds, the bottom hem swimming with

me, like mine, suspended in the opaque: just

wet and dry and whatever you call the in between


Rhienna Renèe Guedry is a queer writer and artist who found her way to the Pacific Northwest, perhaps solely to get use of her vintage outerwear collection. Her work has been featured in Empty Mirror, HAD, Oyster River Pages, Bitch Magazine, Screen Door, and elsewhere. Rhienna is currently working on her first novel. Find more about her projects at or @chouchoot on Twitter.