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
What separates us from our lives / is a see-through thing. /
Brenda K. Marshall’s first novel, Mavis, was published in 1996 (Fawcett-Columbine), and
— After William, William, and William; Robert, Richard, Sam, and Tom In the absence of left hands and left breastsand right eyes and toes and teeth—like gathering more data, adding salt,pulling all
On the day I get junk mail addressed to youfor the first time since you moved out, I also find a clump of your hairin one of the cabinets, under the pots
I can’t understand why I persist to wander around / the tragic nature of my conception / why I can’t walk away / like one who boxes up the past / turns
After Arthur Sze Here, the first Ralph leaves his skin clinging to the cinder block wall. Here, Ralph hangs his ghost by the mouth from between the
after “In Which I am Already the Queer Igbo Elder I Needed” by Nnenna Loveth Nwafor I can tell you stories just like anybody else about this place. I ate the soft
Medellín There is no metaphor for the remainsof a bombed car in a basketnor for the Shepard lying beside thema roach writhing between his pawsnor for Rocío kicking hima cigarette between her
He comes into the Pluckers—hot.He hugs me, lifts me off the ground.Swaps out his Aviators & tac glovesfor a paper bib. This freshly minted Alamo Ranger?He’s buying.Right now, he’s on dogwatch—the shit
NEW ORLEANS IS FORSAKEN THIS TIME OF YEAR a cartoon cigar smoking a cartoon cigarette with a look of rancid terror on its filter-face. you good? i’m good. nails bitten down low
my dad and i spit the same blood. thunderstorms roll to the sound of our bodiescontracting television fevers. my family goes to church the same way, hair greasy, spines stooped, iphones frying
with lines from Sappho, Bishop, and Oliver Sometimes I forget my non-man hands—like can openers—cut circles in the air. If the silence in each fingertip is hereditary. If submersible. If for once /
