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My Pessary by Kresha Richman Warnock

One of our 2026 Pushcart Prize Nominees.

Every morning, after brushing my teeth and taking my shower, I dab a little lubricant on a silicone two-by-two-inch cube, squeeze the object between my thumb and fingers and insert it into my vagina. The cube is called a pessary, and it supports my prolapsing uterus. If you are unfamiliar with the word “pessary,” you are not alone. I only learned of it when I was prescribed mine a few years ago. The spell-checker for the writing program I’m using does not even acknowledge it as a word.

Learning new vocabulary is just one advantage of becoming an older woman. You are less susceptible to the darts of the male gaze. You may get to have grandchildren. If you’re lucky enough to be financially secure, you can do many of the things you’ve always wanted to do, maybe travel or be a writer. But there is no way to avoid the gradual degradation of the human body.

We, the Our Bodies, Ourselves generation, have been aware of our female parts most of our lives. Fifty plus years ago, I volunteered in a free woman’s clinic and learned to do basic pelvic exams. With a plastic speculum and a mirror, you could even do one on yourself, see your own cervix, the small, rounded part of your uterus through which future babies might come out.

The days of self-pelvic exams were far behind me when, in my late thirties, the midwife told me my uterus was prolapsing after giving birth to my second child. The sinking uterus made it a little more difficult to use my preferred form of birth control, the diaphragm, but otherwise, life went on as gravity and the wear and tear of bodily functions took their toll.

Thirty-three years after that last birth, in the early months of the Covid pandemic, my insides were slipping out. I didn’t need a mirror and speculum to feel the smooth, round protrusion of my cervix when I sat on the toilet. When I walked around, I could feel a part of my body that was supposed to stay inside me hanging outside. The midwife had not told me this would happen, and I was scared. [Continued inside Vol.5]

KRESHA RICHMAN WARNOCK is a writer who retired to the Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jim, in January 2020. She is writing a memoir contrasting her days as a campus radical to her current role as the mother of a police officer and is in love with her first, tiny granddaughter, whom she finds a delightful distraction from writing. Kresha’s essays have been published in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, The Brevity Blog, Screamin’Mama’s and the On Being Jewish Now Substack. Her essay, “The Survivor”, received Honorable Mention from in the Proud To Be Anthology published by Southeast Missouri University Press. For a complete list of her work, please visit her website, www. https://kresharwarnock.com/ Follow her on Instagram @kresharwarnock.

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Aubade for ADHD by Christie Beckwith

One of our 2026 Pushcart Prize nominees.

The lavender light weaving through the window screen is a canvas that paints my internal dialogue / my thoughts stampede / fast and loud / a stream / an assault / a (bubbling) stream of merlot thoughts / (stone sober) / pour / GUSH / flow / sofast / theycatchon themselves / relentless noise / who will read this / no one knows / how alone I feel / (I am not screaming) / yet / it is loud in here / the loneliness / the questioning / the tricks I learned / in therapy / to quench the goblins / she’s quiet because it’s hard to STOP / to interrupt the thoughts / to speak / I miss details / rinse repeat / rinse please repeat / yourself / I didn’t hear / no / it’s not that I wasn’t listening / it’s that I didn’t hear you / over the roaring synapses / rushing through my ears / I wish I could just snap /      / and stand / alone / in a white room / full of nothing / maybe / one window for light / and a chair / (a footstool) / in the wholly / sacred / nothing / I wish I could think / happy thoughts / and lift off the ground / light as Tinkerbell / but there are twelve church bells / ringing in a tower / (God’s temple) / and I can’t reach the top / to turn / off / the Bruno Mars lyrics / this is a portrait / of a woman / on a crowded street / between a crosswalk / and a hard place / my twin bed / (a soft place) / with a three inch egg crate topper / I want to be steeped in a dream / where I float / or fly / I hear normal people don’t think / in color / don’t picture what they think / that sometimes they hear nothing / a mind with nothing / must be boring / must be calm / I joke / to pretend / joke / that I don’t need relief / that it’s either take the drugs / that would make a normal brain / see through walls / fist bump a train / at full speed / the speed is what calms me / down / fuck a normal / resting heartrate / it is good to meet me / (medicated) I am pissed / at four decades of / what if you just / why don’t you just / why can’t you just

CHRISTIE BECKWITH is an author, poet, and freelance editor at Meraki Press. More importantly, she is a sparkle girlie and an excessive consumer of Dunkin’s coffee. You can find her at open mics and all over the US, where she travels for her day job doing Alzheimer’s research. She wants to live everywhere she visits, but is always happy to return to Massachusetts, where she loves her four boy humans, the cat, and their two dogs.

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Insides | Alana Rosenbloom

One of our 2026 Monarch Award nominees.

Elise realizes it takes her at least ten minutes to pee when she watches an entire interview of her favorite actress on Good Morning America while on the toilet. She can’t remember when it last felt normal to pee. Only that for months she’s been straining, waiting for sweet relief. Elise reads her book on the toilet. Elise brings her laptop to the bathroom and writes emails on the toilet. Elise watches TikToks on the toilet. Elise wonders if she’ll waste her whole life on the toilet, waiting for that last drop of urine to release from her body. It never does. Elise goes to the doctor. She has regular blood pressure, regular BMI, regular everything. Elise is regular. Elise is healthy the doctor says. Elise tells the doctor about her peeing issue. The doctor has her pee in a cup and refers her to a urologist. The pee in a cup test comes back regular.

Elise goes to the urologist who places her hands on Elise’s abdomen and pushes down. Elise doesn’t feel any pain. That’s good, the urologist says. The urologist suggests a small exploratory procedure, a cystoscopy. Elise schedules the follow up procedure.

On the day of the cystoscopy, Elise waits for almost an hour in the waiting room. Elise sweats while she waits. Finally, the nurse calls Elise back to a small room where Elise undresses and puts on a papery light blue hospital gown. When the urologist comes in, she does not apologize for being late. The urologist explains that most women don’t feel any pain with the cystoscopy. Elise nods; Elise is regular, of course, so she should be like most women. Elise grits her teeth. Elise wishes she wasn’t here alone. The urologist doesn’t explain anything else.

The urologist takes a small rod with a camera on its head and forces it up Elise’s urethra. Because most women don’t feel any pain with this procedure, there is no warning when the camera enters Elise. There is no numbing cream. There is no pain medication. Elise is regular. It shouldn’t hurt. But it does. The urologist points to the screen next to Elise. Elise turns to see the inside of her urethra in black and white on the monitor. That’s the inside of me, Elise thinks. The urologist says everything looks regular. There are no obstacles that should cause blockage of urine. But it takes me ten minutes to pee, Elise says. (And really some days it’s twenty minutes). The urologist shrugs and repeats that everything looks regular. The urologist pulls the camera out of Elise’s urethra. Elise flinches as the rod exits her body. What now? Elise asks. The urologist doesn’t have an answer. You’re fine, she says. The urologist exits. Elise doesn’t feel fine.

Six weeks later, Elise receives a letter in the mail. She owes $900 for the cystoscopy. She reads the rest of her mail on the toilet.

Elise’s parents suggest she see their urologist when she comes home for Thanksgiving. He’s the best in the country. He’s a pediatric urologist and Elise is twenty-five. But he’s the number one pediatric urologist in the country her parents insist. Elise’s parents can call him. They know him. He’ll fit her in. Okay, Elise agrees.

The pediatric urologist’s office tells her to show up to her appointment with a full bladder. Elise drinks so much water she worries she may pee herself in the waiting room. Elise can’t stand waiting anymore and she runs to the bathroom. She pees just a little so her bladder will still be full for the pediatric urologist. It is painful to hold on to the rest of her pee, keeping it inside. When she’s called into her appointment, Elise lies on a table in a large room with lights and equipment. A nurse takes an ultrasound of her bladder. Elise looks at the monitor and thinks, that’s the inside of me. The nurse tells Elise everything looks regular. The nurse can see her bladder is very full. Elise is allowed to pee now. Elise pees in a special toilet that measures the strength of her stream. Elise’s stream has never been stronger. She’s been holding her pee for hours. Elise hasn’t peed this hard in months. The nurse says everything looks regular and sends Elise to a second ultrasound.

Elise drinks an entire water bottle before the second ultrasound. This ultrasound is for Elise’s kidneys. Elise told the doctor sometimes she rubs her lower back to try and release her last drops of pee. The doctor wants to make sure her kidneys look regular. Elise lies on her stomach as the nurse takes images of her kidneys. Elise glances up at the monitor. Her kidneys look rather nice up there, she thinks.

Six weeks later, Elise gets on a video call with the pediatric urologist. The pediatric urologist says everything looks regular. Elise’s bladder is regular. Elise’s kidneys are regular. This is good news, surely. Elise feels crushed. The pediatric urologist says because her parents are his good friends he will even waive the fee for this consultation. Gee thanks, Elise thinks. The pediatric urologist says his specialty is pediatrics, which Elise already knew. The pediatric urologist recommends Elise see a gynecologist. Maybe a doctor for adults will know why Elise can’t pee. Elise thanks the pediatric urologist (for nothing) and hangs up.

Elise turns twenty-six. Elise responds to birthday messages on the toilet.

Elise gets dinner with her best friend at an overpriced restaurant. Elise’s best friend is moving in with her boyfriend. Elise tells her congratulations. Elise goes to the bathroom. Elise tries to pee as fast as she can so she can get back to her friend. It takes her eight minutes. When Elise gets back to the table, her best friend asks if she’s okay. Yes, all good. I just have this weird thing where it takes me a long time to pee. Haha. Elise laughs. It’s funny. Elise’s best friend asks Elise if she’s ever heard of pelvic floor therapy. Elise has not.

Elise’s best friend says her boyfriend has the biggest dick of anyone she’s ever slept with. Elise laughs. She doesn’t need to know about the size of her best friend’s boyfriend’s dick. But then Elise’s best friend explains how when they first got together, she had pain during sex. She didn’t know what to do. She knew she was falling in love. Sex was supposed to be wonderful with someone you love. It wasn’t supposed to hurt. Elise’s best friend ended up going to pelvic floor therapy and it really helped. Apparently, a lot of women have pelvic floor issues. Maybe that’s what’s going on with your peeing, Elise’s best friend tells her. Elise thinks her best friend is smarter than the doctor, and the urologist, and even the number one pediatric urologist is the nation.

Elise goes home and looks up pelvic floor therapy. According to the National Institute of Health, one in four women experience pelvic floor disorders. Elise learns a lot of women suffer from urinary incontinence. Elise reads the list of symptoms for urinary incontinence. Some of them sound like her. Some of them don’t. The doctor and the urologist and the pediatric urologist told Elise she was regular. Elise doesn’t know where she fits on the spectrum from regular to incontinent.

The next weekend, Elise goes to her best friend’s housewarming party. Her best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend with the big dick have rented a cozy apartment and decorated it as their own. Elise’s heart is filled with warmth as she watches her best friend’s smile lines deepen all evening. At the party, Elise meets a cute girl with long hair and glasses and a ring between her nostrils. The cute girl was in grad school with Elise’s best friend’s boyfriend with the big dick. The cute girl asks Elise if she wants to go somewhere to hang out. Elise says yes.

The cute girl and Elise go back to Elise’s studio apartment. They smoke a joint and then they make out on Elise’s bed. The cute girl takes off her shirt. Then, the cute girl takes off Elise’s shirt. They tangle together. Elise feels if there was a camera inside her, the monitor would show a glowing, warm fireplace. Her insides all blue and orange and crackling. The cute girl puts her fingers inside Elise’s vagina. Elise tells her to stay out of there. Focus on the top. The cute girl happily obliges and rubs Elise’s clit until she comes. Elise falls asleep with her cheek on the cute girl’s shoulder. The next morning, the cute girl kisses her goodbye.

Six weeks later, the cute girl is Elise’s girlfriend. Elise’s insides are still burning. A happy, exhilarating glow. Elise’s girlfriend sleeps overs at Elise’s studio apartment at least once a week. One night, Elise’s girlfriend asks her why it takes her so long to pee. She’s noticed sometimes Elise disappears for a while when she heads off to the bathroom. Elise explains she has this issue where she can’t pee. But don’t worry, she saw the inside of her urethra, the urologist put a camera up there, and everything is regular. Haha. Elise’s girlfriend says that doesn’t sound regular to her. Is this why Elise doesn’t like her fingers inside of her? Elise shrinks in shame. She wishes she did. But anything inside of her hurts. Elise’s girlfriend hugs Elise. Elise’s girlfriend says it sounds like the urologist doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Elise says, I love you. Elise’s girlfriend says it back.

Six weeks later, Elise has an annual physical with a new doctor. Elise is twenty-six now and has her own insurance plan separate from her parents. Elise tells the new doctor about her peeing issue. The new doctor has seen the previous tests and ultrasounds Elise has done. I know everything looks regular, but it’s not, Elise says. Elise tells the new doctor she needs pelvic floor physical therapy. The new doctor writes her a prescription for a physical therapist. [Continued inside Vol.5]

ALANA ROSENBLOOM (she/they) is a writer, poet, filmmaker, and choreographer. In their work, she ponders queerness, identity, love, grief and the tumultuous nature of growing up. They were most recently a writers’ assistant for Liz Feldman’s new Netflix show No Good Deed. Throughout her career she has gotten coffee for and worked in writers rooms with acclaimed comedians, such as, Mel Brooks, Mindy Kaling, Jason Mantzoukas, Nick Kroll, Ike Barinholtz, and Wanda Sykes. Alana attended Northwestern University where they received their BA in Radio/Television/Film with a focus on screenwriting and a minor in dance. She currently resides in Los Angeles with her fiancé and little chihuahua, Franklin.

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Animal Baby Mania | Frances Cannon

One of our 2026 Monarch Award Nominees.

One consequence of leaving my bicycle outside year-round, aside from rust and spiderwebs, is that a bird built a nest in my bike basket. When the thunderstorms finally dissipated and early summer weather lured me outside for an afternoon bike ride, I discovered the nest of straw and string with two perfect, red-umber-speckled, marble-sized eggs. With the greatest of intentions, I undid the bungee cords, lifted the nest, and placed it on a lawn chair. Then I panicked—realizing that I might have disturbed the eggs and scared the mother away—perhaps she, fearing a predator, would abandon her babies. I uploaded a photo of the eggs to iNaturalist which suggested that the eggs belonged to a Carolina wren—a compact, ochre-brown bird with striking white eyebrows. Throughout the day, I watched the nest to see if the mother bird would return. No sight of her all evening, or the next morning. It turns out I had broken a law: it’s illegal to move the nest of a migratory breeding bird. Yet on the third day, I peered into the nest to find a miracle: a third egg had appeared! Mother bird must have returned in the night. I watched all day—no sign of her. Later that evening—I checked the nest to find a fourth egg, but still no sign of the bird. The following day, I followed my ritual of examining the nest as soon as I woke up, and suddenly the mother bird flew straight out of the basket into my face with a flurry of wings. I caught my breath and gave her time to return to the nest; a few hours passed, she returned, and she hasn’t budged for two full days. I’m now more wary when I examine the nest for eggs— I’ve learned to respect her boundaries and observe from a distance—but I can see her little beak barely protruding from the straw.

I have baby fever, but not the kind you think—yes, I am a woman in my mid-thirties, which makes me the perfect demographic for this affliction—but my obsession is with nonhuman animal babies, rather than wee humans. I seem to be a magnet for baby animals, or perhaps it’s my confirmation bias—I’m subconsciously on the lookout for young, cute animals, and I find them everywhere I look. All day I listen for the chirps of the young woodpeckers in the hole of a black locust tree outside my kitchen window. Today, on my walk to campus to teach a summer class on science and nature writing, I came upon a fawn—a veritable Bambi with pale polka-dots and spindly legs—she seemed lost and hadn’t yet found her fear of humans, so she wobbled right up to me, sniffed the air, and kept on her merry way. I was tempted to cancel my class to keep my eye on this wayward orphan, to see if she had lost her mother to a car, but instead I taught my class in a state of distraction and worry, peeking out the window every five minutes to watch the fawn’s promenade around campus. While walking my dog to the post office, I watched a mother squirrel carry her baby in her mouth while crossing the street and hopping up into a tree. While hunting for fossils in a streambed, I lifted a rock and found a tiny red eft, no bigger than my pinky finger. I was ecstatic. I drove out of my way to visit Clementine, the baby orangutan at the Columbus zoo, and to my surprise and delight, I also witnessed a baby gorilla and two baby macaques.

These newborns at the zoo led to a sudden bloom of primate representation in my personal media: I binged all the nature documentaries I could stream, starting with Chimp Empire, featuring a fresh-faced toddler chimpanzee, and my instagram algorithms display almost exclusively baby orangutan photos. My compulsive appetite for baby animal content reached its peak during a recent storm—tornado sirens be- gan blaring during a thunderstorm, and they didn’t stop for several hours; emergency alerts lit up on my phone; campus safety emails warning of the danger flooded my inbox; rain and wind battered against my thin windows. My faculty apartment doesn’t have a basement, so—following the national recommendations, I sheltered in place in the next best room—my closet. Tintin and I crawled into the dark space with pillows, a flashlight, a water bottle, a helmet (in case of falling trees and debris), and my laptop. I checked all the local news and watched the weather radar as the tornado approached my little town, then as my fear and need for comfort increased, I succumbed to my illness: I watched a wildlife documentary about baby animals. Imagine if the tornado had actually hit my apartment—the last thing images to have reached my brain would have been a beach full of newly-hatched turtles racing towards the ocean; three lion cubs hiding in a rock pile, a young elephant learning how to use his trunk, and a baby orangutan peeing on his mom in the treetops.

For all of my affection for these furry, aquatic, and feathered infants, I don’t have any interest in having a child of my own. I swear! To clarify—my partner has an eight-year-old daughter whom I love dearly, but I am steadfast in my decision to not produce a little animal from my own womb. I can’t imagine it; I’m an androgynous queer woman, and the concept of giving birth just doesn’t feel natural to me. I also don’t feel thrilled about adding to the exponential population of humans on this overburdened planet, and I am not financially, emotionally, mentally, or physically stable enough to raise a child of my own. I still feel like a kid—I have so much growing to do, and so little time! I can envision the disastrous hypothetical possibility of my giving birth; first I would succumb to postpartum depression, mourn the loss of my free time and compromised career, then overcompensate by hovering anxiously around my baby with my helicopter-parent rotor blades in overdrive. [Continued inside Vol.4]

FRANCES CANNON is a writer, editor, educator, and art- ist. She is the Mellon Science and Nature Writing Fellow at Kenyon College. She also edits for Green Writers Press, Onion River Press, and Maple Tree Press, and she recently served as the managing director of the Sundog Poetry Cen- ter in Vermont. Cannon has taught at the Vermont College of Fine Arts, Champlain College, the Vermont Commons School, the University of Iowa, and Burlington City Arts. She has an MFA in creative writing from Iowa and a BA in poet- ry and printmaking from the University of Vermont. She is the author and illustrator of several books: Walter Ben- jamin Reimagined (MIT Press, 2019), The Highs and Lows of Shapeshift Ma and Big-Little Frank (Gold Wake Press, 2017), Tropicalia (Vagabond Press, 2016), Uranian Fruit (Honeybee Press, 2016), Sagittaria (Bottlecap Press, 2022), Preda- tor/Play (Ethel Zine, 2020), Fling Diction (Green Writers Press, 2024), and Queer Flora, Fauna, Funga (forthcoming with Valiz, 2026).

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