What makes us Different – Lady in White? What makes us Broken – Clocks Looping in a Broken – Record A Scratch of Chalk? Our Chalkboard was – a Sidewalk Your – Clock Is my Permission Slip – To Slip into my own – Pool Your Broken – Poetry –
We rented the house just north of Blissfield, the alley kitchen made for many traffic jams, though the only horns that would blare trumpeted the readiness of rosemary rye. The guest bedroom sweetened with sawdust, your cedar stain waging an aromatic war against my window silled peppermint.
I pause and rewind the Tiktokker, his hands dicing an onion paper thin. There is not one hiding among the murasaki sweet potatoes I am saving in the corner of the chipped pantry shelf, shallots substitute. They hit the skillet with a sizzle, the pale purple ghosts around the pan on a slip n’ slide
but I’d rather step in: kick my shoes off, peel my socks off, dip one toe in to start. And if it’s cold, all the better for when I slip one whole foot in and then the other, let the small pebbles tickle my sole and jagged rocks nip my heel, watch the blue veins […]
I function in Times New Roman size 12 font in speed walking for participation points in rows of plastic desks too small for textbooks It’s a central part of me can’t be severed cause it’s leeched to the flesh of my brain like that tiredness that lies behind my eyes the tiredness that [&h
In the 90’s my Tia wore her brown glazed lip, gold chains, baggy pants to school; she was called a ghetto, dirty– CHOLA. Now reflected on paler skin. Now its big gold hoops are cute. Now being brunette is trendy. When did slick hair in a bun, big gold hoops, and Kiley’s gloss drip […
I will stick Post-its to the wall behind the sink. I will spatter them with soap suds and water, let the ink blend into a paper mâché mass of every word that picked me up off the floor. I will leave dishes in the sink. I will not wash them before I load the dishwasher. […]
on the thirty-first of october, 1517, martin luther published his ninety five theses. his protest burned into the oak doors of a candy colored righteousness. on the third of december, 2017—oh holy night—a chapel chorus tenor in a faux dutch church fell from the graces with a nail and a hammer
In imitation of “Litany of Failed Lines from Previous Poems” by Susan Nguyen We are hurricanes. I am all sighs and gasps when our lips collide. I forgive you for that time you said you didn’t want to get married but then professed me as your wife to your brother’s best friend. Y
Ember flares, breathe in. The crackle of ash tickles my throat, open your eyes, this wallow high never lasts long enough. This group I’m in feels dizzy–– none of my friends see straight morality twisting, turning birthing from our torsos, double helixes. Like staying in bed all day.
