“According to National Geographic, scientists have now developed the technology by which to grow tiny human hearts on spinach leaves.”
“cut offs and a racoon shirt/or finding fate in cut off (or la coupe)/where have you gone?”
“permiso,/slice open a mango. stream the juice/along my collar bone and drink. Taste…”
“Only please when you mean it./I’d give you all the stars//slipping across your milky chest,/spill them as secrets…”
“Drops of lavender/hush the sheets./Where’s my mind?/Curtained, squirming.”
“…6 months on, my hair began to drop me in chunks./i was 31. i was not ready to be bald because my brain was breaking.”
“in the beginning/God felt a little cute/so in his image/He created man…”
“The super sacredness of this,/my real Indian poem,/is going to absolve all white guilt, /but only if you buy my book…”
“Don’t know where my singing voice has gone./I swear I saw it somewhere here”
after a while you won’t be able to turn on the wim wenders film paris texas just because it is streaming on demand and it is friday evening and you are living alone because he who has bale coloured hair and sensitive skin is interstate for the time being working for the man you won’t be able to simply watch movies that too heavily dramatise male loneliness
We’ve been touring Israel, my mom and I, for almost two weeks now and until this point everything’s been agreeable. The crusader fortress in Akko, the Bahá’í Gardens in Haifa, the visit to Kibbutz El Rom, the winery in the Golan Heights (which I skipped, more of a beer person). Even St. Peters Church had weakened me.
T. rex roared, eyes flicking about in short, rapid movements consistent with a predator possessing heightened sensory abilities. It paused before us, head hovering fifteen feet above. It screamed, teeth long like fingers. Cassidy and I reflexively cowered, then laughed.
That night, Jezebel dreams that she forgot her purse on the bus. She chases the bus on foot from stop to stop, always a few feet behind, until it disappears around a bend. She wakes up aching. She feels like she has shed a layer of skin. She turns to David in half-sleep and when she speaks her voice cracks in the dark like static on wool. David pulls her closer to his chest. She says, “I’m always dreaming of losing things. I leave bits of myself behind wherever I go.”
I see life lines and love lines like I’ve never seen them before. As I look, I know what they say. Suddenly I know how to read, like my daughter. This knowledge is no longer inaccessible to me.