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

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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