Cagibi

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Cagibi

/ kä • jē • bē / Founded in 2017. A literary journal publishing quarterly online issues and an annual print issue with Macaron Prize in poetry & prose.

Hosting writing retreats in US and abroad. Cagibi: a literary space

31/07/2025

Two stunning and thematic poems by Jennifer Christgau Aquino in Issue 26, with accompanying art by Rex Southwick:

"I take notes to remember it all. The grass is brushed and inviting frolic. The windows so clear you miss them. The laundry always done. The refrigerator so white-white inside, not a slimy lettuce leaf in sight. The apples are polished, the toilet paper roll full and the soap in the bathroom is a bouquet of bay leaves tied in twine. It smells like cedar. Like musk. Like warm summer. Like nothing is wilting. I walk barefoot, collecting the feeling of cold terrazzo, honed and polished concrete, of zebra wood, which is also found in Prada’s flagship Manhattan store. I touch walls and doorknobs worth more than my wedding ring."

The One Percent Rule // The Architecture of the Living

29/07/2025

A wild personal essay in Issue 26 on what happens when your mother turns into a "Q-Amom," by M.E. Lewis.
*
Years after she abandoned her enterprise, when I was a junior in college, she hit menopause. More accurately, menopause hit her so hard she shattered. The timing of her crisis of identity aligned perfectly with that of the United States, and the ascending MAGA-infected corners of the web became her source of meaning. Her Twitter morphed into an engine of egomania and disinformation, and as her following swelled to 30,000 wretched users, everything grotesque and unwell inside her slithered to the surface. Her sense of reality shrank. I was mean and condescending to her. We did not get along.

by M.E. Lewis

23/07/2025

Our brand new summer issue, #26, just went live, with cover art (called "Spontaneous Self Organization" by Ry Fyan) and poems, short stories, flash fiction, and personal essays by thirteen powerhouse writers plus three translators. There's a fire in here, burning bright.

Welcome to Cagibi Issue 26.

17/07/2025

Excited for "When We Were Gun," by Deborah Schupack, forthcoming this fall. Her story "Bird's Eye View" was in our 2020 print issue, finalist for the Macaron Prize in Fiction.

"A national literary magazine since 1976." The Louisville Review has been in continuous print publication for over 45 years. We continue our mission to import the best writing to local readers, to export the best local writers to a national readership, and to juxtapose the work of established writer...

03/06/2025

Once, mother and I were blue as a mouth that swallows the sea.
We survived the dearth of bread and light, the ghosts of fathers

and brothers behind every wall panting—the half-dead centaurs.
We bled at the altar of yes. Like prophets, years emerged

with their revelations a humming of the moon,
a throbbing of Gospel—
carry on,
carry on,
carry on.

by Leila Farjami

19/05/2025

Check out "Lime Sour," the story of a spunky dreamer in three parts, featuring more of Valentina Cozzi's collage art in Issue 25.
*
At the corner of Malet Street, Billie checked her wheel. Twisted its bolts double tight. Pressed hard on the saddle. The quick move to spin a unicycle was hug the gutter. When she learned, she did it that novice way: pedals at three and nine and clench with her groin. She found it ungainly. Now she tipped the wheel forward and jumped to the mount in one breath, feet working the instant they took the pedals, arms twirling a delicate balance. Left into Malet Street, structuring the rhythm of the ride. A skill of strength and poise. She improved every day.

by Mark Wagstaff

07/05/2025

A mysterious "blob of bright green goo" lies at the center of a tense story about brothers and their authoritarian father.
*
In the twilight, the goo lit up the room, the color of Mountain Dew or late-infection snot. When I thrust a shovel into it, it wiggled. Our stepmother had outfitted us with elbow length kitchen gloves, and hairnets for some reason. She hadn’t spoken all evening, whizzing around the house fulfilling the commands of our father, trying to anticipate them, occasionally succeeding.

by Rick Andrews

04/05/2025

Another collage from our featured artist for Issue 25 accompanies a dreamy poem by Esther Sadoff.
*
These look important she says and I take them,
bearing them away solemnly, heavy with the weight
of responsibility. I used to get mail from my grandparents
and I don't remember what any of those letters said.
I only remember the faded dollar tucked inside.
Back then I thought a dollar could fly me away from reality —
a lollipop to transport me, a fancy scroll of pink and yellow button candy,
a jawbreaker that never was as sweet as it looked.

by Esther Sadoff

28/04/2025

A story of hope, faith, violence, and humor set in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
*
Bien-Aimé lived with his family on a hill a long way away from the mzungu house, in a neighborhood where every place was either up or down. To get the bus you went up. To get water you went down. When it rained, mud and water sluiced along the narrow trenches between the houses and you hoped your house wouldn’t dissolve all the way down the slope and either end up in the lake or under a thousand kilos of mud.

“Did you get the money?” Shilla demanded as soon as she saw him sliding down the slope, his work uniform folded under one arm.

She was straddling a basin of laundry. Three children played in the dirt at her feet. One caught a beetle as big as his fist and gave it an experimental lick.

by Dara Passano

25/04/2025

From our brand new spring issue comes a poem by Dayle Olsen with collage-art by featured artist Valentina Cozzi.
*
She heard wings
clattering against the chimney’s
metal insert during breakfast.

Also: frantic, graceless,
bird toes
scraping against aluminum.

She left the house to keep an appointment.
She went to lunch and had meatballs.
She looked at pictures of Paris.

All quiet that night, she felt relief.
The bird must have
found its way out.

by Dayle Olson

23/04/2025

Issue 25 has landed, and she's a beauty. Spring is a transformative season, and we invite you to explore poems, prose, collages, and artwork that may transform you.

Welcome to Cagibi Issue 24.

15/04/2025

Another powerful personal essay in Issue 24 that begs the question: where are your atoms?
*
If I could choose one superpower—teleportation please. The fictional transfer of matter from one point to another might not be so fictional since a particle accelerator disintegrated a particle and then it reappeared. If they get around to inventing a person accelerator, I’ll hop in during the cold damp winters of my Pacific Northwest home and catch all the Brazilian holidays (which are plentiful), and all those Sunday lunches (which are leisurely), and try Brazil on again just to see how it fits.

by Carolina Pfister

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