Voices

Palimpsest

After Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck” Lacing my fingers through hers, my mothernavigates our adjoined hands. Together, we read the book of

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Anything But Living

We sit on the curb with the bird nestled into the t-shirt I’ve balled in my lap. It does not take long for sweat to begin beading around the edge of my forehead and nape of my neck. If Shallow

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Morning

I awake immobile.Make any move and the world will fall apart,Along with all the schemas we devised;An insatiable heart, not my own,batters my insides, leads revolutions.An existence between blink and breath,A mind

The Universe

The lake is a Universe on some days. The grass and the water coated gently with the gauze of the sun which, touching the living things that hum around it, comes alive.The ferns sway

Palimpsest

After Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck” Lacing my fingers through hers, my mothernavigates our adjoined hands. Together, we read the book of myths. I know what this book is for.I know who

Rom-Com

It’s funny, when I first fell in lovewe weren’t hurrying through a bustling city.We never collided in a coincidenceof cascading documents and black coffee.At no point did I kneel, squintingthrough sunlight to

Out of Tune

I am leaving to find the last jazz standard where you left it for me as a gift,to hold it like an hourglassand listen to the notes drop outuntil my hands are

The Man in Me

In the hot kitchen summer I eat lunch and Lesbian Jen turns on the radio. It is post-high school pre-everything with flies buzzing around the pastries. I am sitting at the counter

Pounce

I never knew I could be so unkind. Even now, seeing the bodymove in on itself,slow slink, shouldersstealing small breathsabove the high grassrustling with hunger,I ripplewith doubt. Times like these,there is always

Now Hiring

You’re lucky.You’re on trial period. They dress youUp like a doll and really, what a uniform.The girl you replacedThought her official title was “Barbie.”It’s what they call you,Whether customers are there or

Fever Dream, Paradise Park

If you don’t hear from me, it is because, for whatever reason, some rogue train has started in my head. It is an old, mercurial machine. What happens when it starts? I

Anything But Living

We sit on the curb with the bird nestled into the t-shirt I’ve balled in my lap. It does not take long for sweat to begin beading around the edge of my