The night before the wedding she’d tried on her wife’s floral party dress, which was of course too tight and too short on her. That she did this—putting a dash of rouge on her cheeks, a black line on her eyelids—might have caused consternation, but her bride-to-be just found it (so she said) funny. [. . .]
Gabo Summer/Fall 2021 Issue 19
One day, before Jassim’s death, Warqa, the dearest of his pigeons, landed above the cote and entered through the tower’s upper entrance, there in the Ashar district in southern Iraq. It was a bit after three in the afternoon when Jassim glimpsed the two wings beating slowly and descending. It was her, Warqa, returning home three years after she had set out on her journey [. . .]
The small white flowers are everywhere, you know. They splinter, then splinter again. I wonder if vulnerability isn’t entirely compromised. Just yesterday someone posted a story about people who’ve jumped off the Golden Gate. And lived.
The sun rises. Everything goes on looking iconic [. . .]
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