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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because even immortal things diewhen touched by love.1Like a winter fingerdown a wingless2 spine.Still, Madame Butterfly,the world3 is largerbecause of the leaving.4There is more to life5than6 resurrection7. [1] Bread. Ice. God. Tears.Night
It’s not worth mentioningthat in the middle of MonopolyI pulled a cherry cough drop from my pocketeven though he had declined. Tough guy.That I heard it clink against his teeth.That I still
These hips chime like a wordy clock; I mock some god with symmetry and blackened feet. Prophet of Christ, of wet, bend not thy knee ⠀⠀⠀ but thy neck; dwell thickly between
cross the isthmus in time. i’ve uncorked the bottleneck for bottomless brunch & they’ve declined the dashing—limbs torpedoed moments prior to repose—while i stroll away on the strand. ⠀⠀⠀ i deliver news
Arachnida God sent a web, its filaments a hymn of deception, a net of mercy to save the prophet from his enemies. Another story goes time folded into itself— a wrinkle, a
I come to this place when sentiments arise that I can’t revive in polite conversation. Like when The Wanderer comes on the radio at work and I’m reminded of how it was
With the sunset sharpness was lost, and like mist rising, quiet rose, quiet spread, the wind settled; loosely the world shook itself down to sleep, darkly here without a light to it,
Harrison Candelaria Fletcher is the author of Descanso for My Father (2012), Presentimiento (2016), and Finding Querencia: Essays from In Between (2022). His work has appeared widely in such venues as New
Our breath is louder on the silence of snowfall,but I can’t help missing the rain. Lately, I’ve curledinto the shape of his body until I’m formless, our sheetsclean but still hinting at
1.if you look closely—and you will—you’ll see not parts, but the suggestion of parts. the only limit isthe imagination, which naturally, turns to sex. did you ever play the original sims? did