a letter from the editors

From: The Bottom Of Our Hearts

On a winter’s night not very long ago, Kinsley and I sat on our couch serenading each other with every lyric from Buzzfeed’s listicle-cum-playlist, “If You Grew Up Listening To These 24 Songs Then You Are 100% Gay Now.” We riffed and skiffed along those nostalgic waters, from the Pussycat Dolls to Toni Braxton and Dido to Pink, eventually following rivulets out to Alanis Morissette, Vanessa Carlton, and even Broadway. Our tuxedo cat may have bobbed along. The room was lit softly, and visions of “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” and “Black Mirror” played on the walls around us. A wispy cloud-goddess made of newspaper text watched over us, and it seemed like a breeze rustled over the bunting that celebrated the launch of our fourth issue this summer. I hope this description conveys that this night was psychedelic. Nostalgic. In a lot of ways, made of love.

I’d say the same of Issue 5. It’s a beautiful blend of the unexpected—the hurt and the healing, the sultry and self-seeking, the grotesque and the wonderful—all on one screen. It’s a party that you didn’t know you were invited to, and hopefully you’ll stay a while. Eventually all the songs will blend together (see Kinsley’s letter below), and you’ll be forever changed, we think. Want to try it? Hit that arrow down there, baby. It’s about to get groovy.

Dakota Garilli, Co-editor

A Poem of Firsts for/by IDK 5*

Every mountain has a name.
Would you like something for it?

At my wake, confess it all for me in Spanglish:
you wished for rain and then it was there.

The November moon blooms off the coast.
You’re talking about grief

when you’ve spent hours picking them,
it must have been,

the gauzy beds of the worms—
interdigital skin.

I’m watching The Office with the tube at my lips, filling
my mouth with saliva and letting it dribble into the plastic container.

I am writing you letters
like just now, I made tomorrow’s lunch.

This summer, I think
the other night

Let me remind you:
they look at you through bathroom windows.

We burn up in this copper forest of
someone speaking Nynorsk in the kitchen. Eggs sizzling,

I wake up with the flowers you gave me.
Do not blame the naked, apple-shaped breasts of Hawwa.

Steubenville’s DA recused herself. Her son:
the wild hyssop’s petals.

I kicked all the white;
Uncle's ribs poke through the armholes.

A choirboy exudes
did you see that dead horse?

*each line is the first line from our IDK 5 pieces, in order

All my love, all my life: built with the help & hands of others. I hope you enjoy reading IDK Magazine Issue 5 as much as we loved putting it together.

Kinsley Stocum, Co-editor