In December 2014, I had just completed my first semester of a creative writing MFA in Boston and was home for the holiday break. Mileage may vary for those in MFAs—and elsewhere, I’ve shared some my own small and large battles—but my first sampling of fiction workshops and rhet/comp teacher
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i. There was a time. There is time, and it fools us. It really does toy. Like he put it, it is titillating, this foreplay with death. As one day dawns with
LM Brimmer is a co-editor of the anthology Queer Voices: Poetry, Prose
A Short Film Starring Me at a Bathhouse I have a line
Spring Breakers (Dir. Harmony Korine, 2013) Poetry is a place. The world puts you in your place. History dictates the pattern, dead as Saturn’s rings. The world puts you in an orbit from which
Because her local news was buzzing in the background of the phone call. Because the voicesof the anchors wavered as the tally ticked & skipped from double to triple digits while we
The hunger to forget, a flockof questions, a flight of memories.Finishing my life might look like thesephotographs my mother sent me,annotated in her shaky hand with names,leaves that will outlive us all.
Food i can’t eat: Sesame seeds Drumstickchicken All the seasons and the change in climate Clawed chestrising and crumbling Smothered in a bed of mole The moldgrowing on a Cold San Francisco
and a womb sounds too closeto wound. Every time this happens, I forget the sacred pocketwhere you carried me, buried me like a seed in a citrus grove. Suddenly, I amcrashing my
I loathed the place from the first hour — indeed, I loathed it even before I had stepped across its threshold, which should tell you something about the mind’s sick propensity for
When we came out of our apartment the humidity punched us in the face like we’d unsealed a wind tunnel or opened a blast door. In my mind a deep, otherworldly howl
Driving through a cold spring drizzle, I noticed a young woman, smoking. She was standing under the eaves of a non-descript office building, wearing heels and a short, clingy black dress, her arms, neck,
Still Life with Lack of Nesting The oaks in New Orleans were restless, their rootslike fat fingers rummaging under sheets, pushing sidewalk up to sea level. The streetcar was free—or at least,
Eden Sundays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays brought up in belief before it was mine bible thumping, backneck kinda indoctrination on our hands and knees before the Lord that everlasting ache in the rib of Eve subservient, superpassible by the
