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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“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
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
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
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.
It arrives on my doorstep and I unbox the thing like it’s radioactive, and for all I know, it could be. The wonders of modern medicine are beyond me, and bad news
I. After six years of dating, after your fourth breakup with Tall Glass of Water, the water heater explodes and floods your things, the things you have finally moved from your coveted storage unit
Well met, well met, my ain true love/
well met, well met, cried he