This is where, in the poem,/I say that I am descended/from these motherfuckers
A Ferret, a Stoat, and a Polecat//go into a bar. Wait, it isn’t that kind/of poem.
I’ve often considered fiction as a way to get out my worst fears, to put a mortifying or scary way of being onto the page, so that I won’t actually have to live it.
Is she a victim or a villainess?/ You remember only a storm of swords and flame, /a flash of the white of winter, /the blue of a dragon’s eye.
She doesn’t know what the snow does/
to her pipes. But you do.
There are as many ways to grow up as there are people, which is what makes these individual coming-of-age stories infinitely interesting and relatable.
i loved my young life once. it thrummed with inner mischief, some transgressions maybe but all tongue, all textures, all translated through that funnel in my head.
Let someone bang her champagne glass with the pretty cutlery your in-laws gifted you. Or bang your own.
a lynch mob. a defense mob. a gunshot. hate. a gunshot. hate. a deputizing of hundreds.
there is a confluence influenced apparently by a fluidity of music.