by Dani Janae

My entire life, I have learned to subsist on love that was
not whole, that was piecemeal, that was not made for me
to begin with. That kind of love makes you think you were

born wrong, a villain invading the crib. My adoptive mom
did not love me in a way I could understand, so I learned to live
in the hollow. I learned to love the mother that birthed me,

loved what I made her: a quiet, bookish woman who played piano.
When she was not who I wanted, I learned to love who she was.
I searched any approximation of her name, and learned to love

the errors. Did you mean: Sarah Walsh? Did you mean: Sarah Welch?
I learned to love the woe. I learned to love her demons. I learned to
love her refuse. I have a face only my mother could love. I have some

secrets only my mother could forgive. I say all this to say: my mother
left me to the wolves and I still loved her. Do you understand?
The weight we give daughters to carry? Like a fruit tree, I spawn good

children. Each poem sparkling and juicy. It takes a therapist one session
to name “abandonment.” The search engine says, did you mean: absence?‍ ‍
Did you mean: abscess? Did you mean: abstract? Did you mean: abet?

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Dani Janae is a poet and journalist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her work has been published by Longleaf Review, SWWIM Every Day, Palette Poetry, South Florida Poetry Journal, and others. Her debut collection of poetry, Hound Triptych, will be published by Sundress Publications in Spring 2026. She lives in South Carolina.

by Dani Janae

I put on a suit and deem myself Trillary Clinton.
A tag on my cup of tea says “Empty yourself and let
the universe fill you.” I keep thinking of Olivia Benson,
I keep thinking about the jury of my peers. I pose
half-naked for a stranger's project on sexual violence.
My body a blur as I’m asked to move through emotion.
It’s the entire Commonwealth versus a man in a suit.
The detective presses his hand to his face as he asks
me how much I had to drink on the night in question.
The same detective tells me my rapist and his lawyer
are arrogant, like they’ve won already. I still try
to make time to laugh, but every sound from my lips
comes out as a plea. I create a playlist called
“rage suite” and hope it helps me to channel my
tears into fire. In the end, the Commonwealth says
I am incapable of standing trial. In the end, my tongue
is less flame and more a wet muscle. The men have won
the prize of my body, changed thing. Changeling. The hiss
of my name laying gold crowns on their teeth, oh victory.

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Dani Janae is a poet and journalist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her work has been published by Longleaf Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, Palette Poetry, Wax Nine Journal, Levee Magazine, and Slush Pile Magazine. Her manuscript, Express Desire, was a finalist for the 2023 CAAPP Book Prize.