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      May 4, 2016Channellock PliersAmy Miller

      They came in a box
      Dad gave me one Christmas,
      nestled among the level
      and awl and putty knife
      and changeable screwdriver
      and wire cutters and tin snips.
      I went home and weighed
      each in my hand and finally
      put the Channellocks
      under my pillow,
      their heft just right
      for splitting a skull
      in a blind swing
      out of a startled sleep.
      I never told my father
      this. Their handles
      dipped in red rubber still hush
      their clank when I hold them
      in the night.

      from #51 - Spring 2016

      Amy Miller

      “I’ve been turned down for jobs because I was a woman. I’ve been sexually harassed at work and on the street. Men have exposed themselves to me in parking lots, public parks, and my own driveway. I’ve been in relationships where I was expected to cook because I was the only person in the house with ovaries. I’ve cut hikes short because the trail got too desolate; I walk with pepper spray in supposedly safe neighborhoods. And none of this is uncommon—ask any woman. I don’t know how you can be alive in the world today and not be a feminist.”

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