Love is twofold. The burning taste of new, and the slow, steady work of revision. At the kitchen table, stitching back former selves. The familiar gesture of putting saliva on a ladder down the pantyhose. Then, a drop of nail polish to preserve the elusive.
The evening begins like this like expired medication. Curled in a laeotropic ball, under the exhaustion of the blue comforter, I struggle to take shape and breathe like the golam – press your lips against the cold clay of my forehead. I sweat in this
Interesting to have the tips of my fingers numb all the time; I check my toes on cold days to see if they need a warm soak. My lips tingle from time to time; my message worries the Clinic staff enough to call—they think a
You trip into my tongue / I want to keep you there forever / Speak for me / Fill me with your balladry / Your saliva will grow fresh fruit / Under my stuttering gum / Anastasia Jill is a queer writer living in
Jim’s hands shake As he sits in his plastic chair, His bald head speckled with white hairs, His eyes big and blank. I see him but I don’t see him often He keeps relapsing, disappearing I think about how it’s likely No one will find
we will start with something obvious something like why is love simply |||||||||||||||? why can be an adverb a noun an interjection & probably other things it’s shifty this one why begs for a reason re: Hachikō the Akita Inu who waited every day for
The average blink lasts one-tenth of a second, as fast as we lapse past each tunnel light. In the train car we’re in, zipping through New Jersey, I’m reading William Carlos Williams and falling in love with some boy’s eyes like molé sitting beside me,
What if the dead came back in the tune of your favorite song? What if they turned up on your doorstep selling vacuums and matchboxes that looked like bibles, their bodies shaped like your mouth when it presses against my skin? (Is that still considered
I whistle out into the night & it comes to me. a creature that already knows my intentions. its feet fit nicely into the divot made by my collarbones. it is like me: accustomed to dim light & hiding its talons. I am teaching it
Dream a quenched love, gambit akin to chess, poured into a narrow hallway from some tall glass—a gauntlet, say. Not gantlet, two lines, men with sticks beating cuckolds, lechers, liars running by. Also, gimlet nearby—tool to glide inside a pretty package, bore the hole deep