The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
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The first girl I kissed pushedme against the serrated brickssame color as her busted lip.Transfer student. Eyes familiar withdarkness akin toMidwestern stormcell—the untitled blue I like best. I counted the seconds aftershe
my last meal as a girl I dined onsnow. the sky snared my teethbut everyone pretended not to see. the snow was luminous and wet.a blue cat pooled in the eyes ofthe
In the beginning was the Word and the Word was as of yet undefined. The Word had freckles across the bridge of her nose that only showed up in the sunshine, and
It does not matter if you’re rich in life, As long as you’re rich in heaven. My father, in heaven, smokes Camels. In the spirit months we feast together.Mother plates chicken cutlet, fish soup, Sticky
With a line after Matthea Harvey There’s a house on my palm. it sways with the wind. in our basement, my parents store records in an old crate. they sit reminiscing while
here’s a story about the woman i love: in my sleep, we wander the museum, & she points out
As a child a painted turtle found me, so I made a cage for him, but by the next morning he had disappeared. I assumed that the turtle was a him because
My dear, I think you’ll make a fine Attic Ghost. You seem destined for the slow creak of floorboards in a sleeping house. Just imagine: your silhouette framed in the window of
On the beach just by the power plant, Brett told us about the Prick Garden: “There’s a rabbi,” he said, “just back in the woods. He buries foreskins in his yard. Bris.”
People described my father as a navy man, distilling his entire life into two words: NAVY. MAN. But I never heard him say those words. To be fair, he didn’t say much