Letter spacing

Line height

Highlight titles

Hide images

Reading mask

Highlight links

Black cursor

White cursor

High contrast

Soft contrast

Black and white

A Juicy and Definitely Scientific Qualitative and Quantitative Comparison of Cure vs. Care

Words and imagery by Miriam Saperstein

On a watercolour painting background of red, blue, purple and peach wavy shapes, words read: A Juicy and Definitely Scientific Qualitative and Quantitative Comparison of Cure vs. Care
“Cure saves lives; cure manipulates lives; cure prioritizes some lives over others; cure makes profits; cure justifies violence; cure promises resolution to body-mind loss”
—Eli Clare, Brilliant Imperfection, xvi

“Because, once we are all ill and confined to the bed, sharing our stories of therapies and comforts, forming support groups, bearing witness to each other’s tales of trauma, prioritizing the care and love of our sick, pained, expensive, sensitive, fantastic bodies, and there is no one left to go to work, perhaps then, finally, capitalism will screech to its much needed, long-overdue, and motherfucking glorious halt.”
—Johanna Hedva, “Sick Woman Theory”

In the heat dome Kendra builds a shower chair.

Kip and I make plans to lay in bed all day and watch
the L Word with A/C blasting. I’ve never seen it.

When my legs swell up, I panic. I blame myself for
not believing in a cure. (There is no cure.)

The rain begins. The trees thrashing. I love them so much
when Kendra says “thank you Hashem for watering the plants.”
I want to run outside and lay in the mud without my glasses,
eyes to the sky as rain drops take shape inches from my cornea.

I check my weather app, amazed at how the heat
is breaking. I realize I’ve opened the weather
for northern Michigan. I was supposed to go there this week.
Instead, I will take a cold shower in Philly.
This will be a huge deal for me.
The storm pauses. The heat rises. Is there no cure?

Jane and Erin come to visit. We all sit on the bed
across from the window a/c, talking about the merits
of freezer bread v. loaves
in the breadbox, where are the ton’s lesbians
in season three of Bridgerton, whether clinical
pastoral education credits should be a requirement
for the rabbinate.

On a watercolour painting background of red, blue, purple and peach wavy shapes, words read: Chaplains are the only hospital workers who record
observations in a patient’s chart using their name.
Kendra says the required diction feels
antiseptic, cleansed of a human touch—and still,
“Ms. Saperstein expressed sadness at not being able
to leave their room,” seems measurably more
humane than “Patient was compliant
but unable to stand without heart palpitations.”

My love sits on the edge of the bed,
excited to tell me about the animal
videos the hospital chaplains watch
on their breaks. Yesterday when I could
barely tolerate the sound of the air
conditioner, we lay next
to each other on top
of the blankets
and I couldn’t look at
their face lest my heart
rate spike and I relapse.

Today I have the luxuries
of touch, and sound. I’m so lucky
every night is a sleepover
with my best friend. My mom
calls Kendra to say goodnight.
She wants to check in.
Jane and Erin took the trash to the curb
and watered the flowers. It’s over 90
at dinner time in a heatwave
spanning Chicago to Philly.
I encouraged them to take ice cubes
to hold on their walk home. Some things
are meant to be felt, not measured.

Is care innate or learned?
Like lesbianism, or a fear of rotting
bread inherited from one’s mother.
Why do we measure
what we hate? Why do I need
a cure? I learn from skimming
a research study that the first
“wearable fitness technology”
launched in 1965. Unsurprisingly,
the marketing campaign
was designed to encourage
exercise to “fight obesity.”

I want: a fatness of love.
Thick thighs and juicy data,
a biofeedback loop of care,

On a watercolour painting background of red, blue, purple and peach wavy shapes, words read: sending videos of cuddling
pandas to my sick friends,
a blood pressure cuff
to measure how my heart
spikes when you walk
into our room after a long
day at the hospital, still
so much care saved up for me.
Tell me how much
you love me. We can use a metric
that no one else can quantify.

A concrete camp: embodying collective resistance for Palestine

Musings on a student encampment

Digital oil painting of two Black trans people sit closely on a green couch in a vibrant room with colourful art on the walls, plants and a fruit bowl. One person is in recovery from top surgery with bandages around their chest and a quilt on their lap. The other is offering them a drink.

aftercare/devotion

A digital oil painting of trans care by Mercy Thokozane Minah

Shadows of flowers and leaves with bright white sun streaks on a brown wall

Convalescence

Poetry and free writing exploration of convalescence by Saskia Horton

front cover of Sophie Chauhan's book Curious Affinities which has a mustard yellow cover and is sitting on top of a woven blanket. Image has yellow-green filter on it

Is pain always political?

An excerpt from Sophie Chauhan’s book Curious Affinities

Watercolour and textile art of a tree with roots underground and emerging with red and orange flowers growing outwards

Invisible Gifts

A short story by H K Grafton, with imagery by Gigi Lazy

A sun streaked brown-duvet crumpled up on a white bed with two feet just peeking out at the bottom

An Open Letter To My Bed

Spacemaking as Sanctuary // Water Memory 🌊

An exploration in worldbuilding and remembering alternative infrastructures

Light purple background with tomato stem and red flower on left hand side. White stemmed plant on the right hand side with green leaves of different sizes and textures, and small yellow flowers. There are bees around both stems and underneath are the words, We keep each other safe & help each other grow. Image is bordered by two blue flowers and two white flowers in the corners, with swirly stems between them to create a rectangle around the image. Image has blue filter over it.

We keep each other safe

Han Gunji’s illustration on radical health and healing using the metaphor of mutually beneficial flowers

Font size