Voices

Pancakes

When I was young, my dad used to make pancakes. He used a Bisquick base, adding spoonfuls of sugar and dollops of

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A Trip’s End

An unfinished, unsettled air swells my lungs. I choke.Hollowed redwoods and pastel Victorians echo car songsI find no solace in repeating alone. Solo karaoke,solo smoking, or solo sobriety will have to do. Hotboxed silos, hapless silence. I pack an empty

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Time to Create

It’s too bad I like words.I find myself staringat this page-screentrying to achieve lexical beautyto Shakespearize my modern qualmsto romanticise my digital worldto capture the Dickensian complexity of mysuburban upbringing,but words fail sometimes.They

Pancakes

When I was young, my dad used to make pancakes. He used a Bisquick base, adding spoonfuls of sugar and dollops of sour cream. When he lifted the spoon, the batter plopped

A Trip’s End

An unfinished, unsettled air swells my lungs. I choke.Hollowed redwoods and pastel Victorians echo car songsI find no solace in repeating alone. Solo karaoke,solo smoking, or solo sobriety will have to do.

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