When you died, the grooves
in your back turned to rivers
on which I set sail everything I stole from you:
trope is unhinged femme / prevents me from writing / Annie Wilkes hobbles a man because bipolar, because obsessive / Dr. Robert Elliott murders because transgender, because toxic masculinity, because self-hatred
dawn at the train station:
hushed voices scatter last night’s news
into the air like goldfish the
morning light plucks it pours
it over pillars & swims at your feet.
One way, you pass a house with chickens in the yard and you think, “Ah, I’ve always wanted chickens. I’d be better with chickens.”
One way, you go everywhere by bike and live in a flap tent alone. Your thighs are sculpted like marble.
One way is full of bubbles: bathtubs, gum, champagne, Jacuzzis.
A literary and art journal
from the MFA community at
Antioch University Los Angeles.
We’ll keep you fed with great new writing, insightful interviews, and thought-provoking art, and promise with all our hearts never to share your info with anyone else.