You point to the pheasant. She’s sad, too. You’re both sad together.
But all he wants to know, my gorgeous lover of words,/dirt, puddles, and the sky, is why I “broke” his fall at all
They both have bright red painted toenails. They wiggle their toes and swing their legs and laugh. I bike home feeling the world is a beautiful place.
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.
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.