After Jennifer S. Cheng 1: the sea captured in a glass 2: a homophone for having enough for leftovers, a synonym for abundance 3: the fish, who have already forgotten you. It’s not personal 4: where memory fails, there’s still imagining 5: you. Not as an ocean but outside 6: glass and/or acrylic
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* Voltage-gated pathways are depolarizedand pore-forming membrane proteinsallow calcium influx from adjacent solutions. (Cell insides become saturated) Excitation is mossy fiber runningsouthbound head-stems and paired shootsthrough once-relaxed tissue. * You’ve established rules,preventative
Brenda K. Marshall’s first novel, Mavis, was published in 1996 (Fawcett-Columbine), and
What separates us from our lives / is a see-through thing. /
The scarecrow thawed & we readied it for the garden.I wanted to rub the purple botches on the Dahlia’ssoft white petals. A robin oblivious to me stoodon earth as soft as bread
save for the shitty under-aged tattoos, you’d never know i was once sixteen— your dad’s hot tub a gumbo of gumption and too-cool girls cash crumpled and rediscovered under the passenger seat,
You tried to color my hair at the kitchen sink the night we moved in together: a big man wielding a little brush with surprising delicacy, applying blond dye in practiced streaks.
I see a photograph of a human heart entirely drained of blood, its surface translucent. The aortic valve and pericardium membrane encapsulating the heart are a pale, pinkish beige just shy of
Having For So Long Been My Mother’sLive-In Caregiver I could call the doctor, make oatmeal,buy vitamins, change batteries,and dim the blinds all day long.I could service your concentrator,clean your nebulizer,or do something
Timothy Nolan (he/him/his) is a writer and visual artist living in Palm Springs, California with his husband and their rescue dog, Scout. He has exhibited extensively for three decades and his work
Chaco Canyon yesterday, impulse after reading the Childs stuff. Many years of wanting to go. I thought it took 5 hours or more but driving a little hard it was only 3.5.
because there’s something I should tell you,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀but you’ll need to come to me. I reachand the rock of me stays,⠀⠀⠀⠀ just here where I’m mortared— ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I must, then, own my arms,
I come home sad so I slice potatoes thin and fry them with oil and onions, keeping watch to flip at the perfect time, right when they crisp up golden. I remember
At Waitomo, New Zealand If there is no heaven I’ll make due rest my head in the cave of constellations. Look up at The Milky Way pressed against stony pomegranate flesh.