Mundane solidarity helped us meet outside of linear time and embrace ourselves as the whole suns we are.
At the door, like a dog. / I waited for love. / The heart / was a station / where evenings stopped.
Even though you didn’t say “no” in what you’ve been told is the “right” way to say no, you were saying no.
I want to be sustained by a world that we create
how much time / does the wind give us? / do we still run? / who sends the wind? / does it carry the bombs? / or do they come after?
i want to banish the shame/ write it in a book to be banned,/ take the banal, grow a banana/ tree of new knowing
When I look back, I think about all the times Gatorade has let me down in my life.
Through the radio speakers / I hear a woman shivering. I think of my friend, newly pregnant, / also on her way to work, how she’ll twist a ring off her swollen finger.
A golden teardrop in the making. The skin stretched pale and translucent, leaving the flesh to its own devices in an increasingly dangerous season. The fruit will not travel far.
stories that seethe in the blood: a lion / that slumbers in the copper pillar of her / body.
My country is broken, / Mountains and rivers remain / In the city, grasses / Spread their roots
Where did you abandon the snowflake on which I wrote my secrets?
A girl labelled comfort / wartime ammunition / recalled her father who built / her home on / a graveyard
Gas station glow past 3AM, the glassed look of a man who’s been sitting for too long, hot dogs slumbering behind a screen, their skins plump and pink.
we inherited sickly / roots our ancestors couldn’t plant / deep enough to / grow
At the door, like a dog. / I waited for love. / The heart / was a station / where evenings stopped.
Through the radio speakers / I hear a woman shivering. I think of my friend, newly pregnant, / also on her way to work, how she’ll twist a ring off her swollen finger.
Even though you didn’t say “no” in what you’ve been told is the “right” way to say no, you were saying no.
A golden teardrop in the making. The skin stretched pale and translucent, leaving the flesh to its own devices in an increasingly dangerous season. The fruit will not travel far.
stories that seethe in the blood: a lion / that slumbers in the copper pillar of her / body.
I want to be sustained by a world that we create
My country is broken, / Mountains and rivers remain / In the city, grasses / Spread their roots
Where did you abandon the snowflake on which I wrote my secrets?
how much time / does the wind give us? / do we still run? / who sends the wind? / does it carry the bombs? / or do they come after?
A girl labelled comfort / wartime ammunition / recalled her father who built / her home on / a graveyard
i want to banish the shame/ write it in a book to be banned,/ take the banal, grow a banana/ tree of new knowing
Gas station glow past 3AM, the glassed look of a man who’s been sitting for too long, hot dogs slumbering behind a screen, their skins plump and pink.
When I look back, I think about all the times Gatorade has let me down in my life.
we inherited sickly / roots our ancestors couldn’t plant / deep enough to / grow