News by Julie Benesh

Yesterday I scratched

an insect bite until I bled

an iron scab on my arm, 

my knee, my hand, 

my leg, my foot. No 

comfort. Gunshots 


wake us at night, despite 

our pricey property taxes.

No rest. That famous cupcake shop 

has discontinued everything I like; 

the restaurant has run out of sole

and waiters, and we have to serve ourselves

filet mignon, and my belly won’t fit  

my underwear anymore, anyway. No digest.

An insistent breeze may cause …pelvic

congestion. No satisfaction. I’m breaking

out and hair and flesh migrating from good places

to bad, right to wrong. 

Deja vu: 


strangely familiar global adolescence; 

storming like derechos ─whither

norming?─ peer pressure sinking

buildings. No stability.


Events and people

we thought we knew

and loved: canceled; 

our pasts exposed as lies 

and sins, our consciousness 

proven false. No traditions; no



The techno-fix is a whack-a-mole 

and we can’t believe everything

we read, but what else is there?

They are selling big kid

pants, half off, at Nordstrom…

and the library?−still free.

No excuses.


A graduate of Warren Wilson College’s Program for Writers, Julie Benesh is recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Grant and her writing can be found in Bestial Noise: A Tin House Fiction Reader, Tin House Magazine (print), Crab Orchard Review, Florida Review, Gulf Stream, Hobart, Cleaver, and many other places. Read more at