One way to measure the passage of time is to count the number of days since you last had sex. I’ve lost count. I only know it’s been more than three years for me and my husband—at least with each other. I know this because
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a quarto for L.B. all alone in the dark
A blue backpack, filthy, open. Five-year-old Liza was miles from the campsite—metres? What was a mile? Minutes. It had taken her roughly five to get here, to this tree with its fat
I’ll tell you from experience that the night sky looks different after your mom dies. When the moon is out and you remember some old poem about how every person that has
a cicadaeats itself whole a cicadaisn’t scared of you. At the hotel, the sky was. A gold balloonshaped like #1 flew past the mountain & I wasn’t scared of you. * #1 could
Head out, highway high A continuous zephyr El Dia Previo synced Admiration for the asterisms Pastel colored moon glowing Measured burning glances Pinkies linked, head cradled Zaira Gomez is an emerging writer
I bore the badlands, burned my birth certificate in a sweat of cedar. Shed light upon the burial. So obsessed with stars I toiled with the earth, knowing nothing of the sacred, where
Title of Poem 1 What if we kissed for the first time and I tried to stop it— sprinting up the street, scraggly-bearded, soot-skinned, tearsacross my face, minutes until the portal to my
how the winged ants poured from holes in the orange hill and we kneltrapt as they clambered up blades of grass in clusters and hurled themselves into the wind carried like small parachuted soldiers in
In a cafe this morning I jammed my toast with a knife as I listened to a pair discuss how to brand comfort, one of them maintaining that good design is dependent