making our own fun

by Romy Rhoads Ewing

20 April 2026

the black burnt into the snow calls me home loud gunpowder, proof of girl real deep red firecracker shrapnel something had exploded–no shit– something made of the same stuff as me–you’ll always be some hands that knew my waist that much at least i can promise it was as real as blown-out ears we were as real as bleeding if i reach my hand through you are there stars inside when i nearly fainted running through the knee-deep snow i thought i saw you and then nothing at all

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about the author

Romy Rhoads Ewing writes from Sacramento, California, where she was born and raised. Her work has appeared in HAD, Oyez Review, Rejection Letters, Bullshit Lit, Major 7th Magazine, and more. She is the author of please stay (Bottlecap Press, 2024) and someday [everybody but] you + i will laugh about all of this (3rd Annual Hallow-Zine Fest, 2025). She edits poetry and nonfiction for JAKE and also runs the archival site SACRAMENTO DIRTBAG ARCHIVES. More can be found at romyrhoadsewing.xyz

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