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
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,
Survival Kills You no longer maintain loyalty to land or certificates of existence. “Farrah” translates to “happiness”. With a slick tremor to the lower back, radio waves ( c r a s
Kami Enzie (he/him) is a Vienna-born, New Orleans-raised writer. Work appears in Chicago Review, The Glacier, Image, Oversound, The Poetry Review, and swamp pink. He is an alumnus of Tin House Winter
Wind Peace came at once. A cloud arrow that pierced my corpse alive. I’d been dead to all the birds and violets. It was a severance, the violent calm that ruptured a legacy
