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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Existing. That was what the weeks after the funeral felt like—a string of continual stresses from the mountain of immediate family responsibilities, punctuated with pangs of overwhelming sadness, and then those sudden
They call you Bella. It’s the name you chose from the film Belladonna of Sadness. At the strip club, where you can tell them what they call you, but not how they
Acronicta leporina It’s late April in Bisbee and the sun is in the wrong place over the Swisshelm mountains for the kind of hot it is. The perry penstemons in the yard
“Call me back as soon as you get this,” the woman said on my voice mail, her voice tense. She was the director of Korean adoptions at the agency we had used
I’m Jane Doe. Isn’t that what we call the unidentifiable dead, those silenced souls that no one nearby recognizes? I have, of course, another name, but for a long time, Jane Doe
History of present illness—A 45-year-old male with no significant past medical history. His symptoms initially beganon Sunday with left ear pain and tooth pain. Also on Monday, he developed a rash over
A cinematic image of nostalgia is a double exposure, or a superimposition of two images. The moment we try to force it into a single image, it breaks the frame or burns
In the kitchen of the Rodehouse at the Rodeway Inn, I start at the bottom of the food chain: dishwasher. It’s challenging work, about as glamorous as it sounds, and I go
Jaimeson Oakley (He/They) is a trans/queer writer from the hills of Lucasville, Ohio. He is currently a poetry student of the Northeastern Ohio MFA creative writing program at Kent State University. They
Winner of the Sonora Review Issue 80 Nonfiction Contest, selected by Melissa Faliveno “My first reaction to most things is, ‘Fuck this, fuck you, this is bullshit,’” I said. My therapist blinked.