The people of Heoldel were precociously superstitious. They knew to cover their mirrors after sunset so as not to be pulled in and replaced by their mimicking reflections. To not gaze upon the moon when with child, lest it be born wolfish or malformed. And to hide and hang iron above the doorways of their
Trigger warning: racist characters The Speeding Ticket As Derek stood in the road, waiting for the officer to finish writing the ticket, he reflected somberly on his day. If only he had taken the interstate instead of cutting through the countryside on the backroads! Then he wouldn’t have been pulled over by the traffic cops,
Defiantly, there grew a lily surrounded by a sea of morning glory it sprouted from soils fertilized with a falsity of promises wept Their violent waves splash at its stalk their twisting vines strangle up its stem. There no longer grew a lily, instead replaced by homogenized glory.
The red half-moon falls in my bath water like dry peony petals from late June. A gold crescent appears for the daughter. I stir my tea, thrice, with a silver spoon. Warm droplets coat my tongue like the sun’s embrace Chamomile, lavender, creamed honey. Shadows swallow a choking maiden’s grace. Cyclical patterns flow in harmony.
A pulse suspended in inka silence that tastes like the edge of timecurling around broken hoursand slipping beneath its skin. I rise from the horizonbut do not break it.A pale fracture in the quietfelt only in the tremorof the earth’s quiet exhale. I unravel the nightwoven from threads too fine to holdhumming through the silencewhere
I’m reading Elle by Donald Glover, and I’m struck by Elle’s predicament. What do you do with a headstrong girl? Fling her over the starboard deck and sail away, mate. Drop her on an impoverished beach with a dying lover and a useless nursemaid. Throw her a bone; a trunk full of posh dresses next to a
Susan Musgrave writes violets into my dreams that leave me flush alone in a field with rows of chiseled stone and flowers, strewn by the wind mauve, magenta, yellow, fuchsia, and persimmon orange i long to lie in a room near the click of her typewriter keys, keys that transform into a gentle metronome that lull
It’s getting hard, For real now. You know that- What? Right? She wants to paint you, Her decalcomania, Colors bleeding like tears. You know that- Why? Right? A flood’s coming soon, Dark water rising, Choking her whispered fears. You know that- Where? Right? Save her, please, Before she sinks, Drowning in dreams left unspoken You
On the edge of a fading shore where the words were heard no more they searched for it, and there it lay trapped in ink, that vanishing rhyme. Their tongue still stirred to speak familiar, they tried just lasting two seconds they said the elders knew it well so far and wide, they cast their
I am a Ghost Whose tribe has been Slaughtered Our language and way deemed savage. Hatred and anger From a society built on Bloodied lands Stolen from brown Native hands Painful past His-story and her-story Taints future Generations.
My story is breadcrumbs Sprinkled about a rocky trail Down cliffs Over rivers That rushed, and washed away the bank Born to a mother whose grip was forced Loose by powder The same powder that lingers in my veins Laces my bones in a bow Forever tight This small child Passed from mother to mother
I don’t want to be a clean environment I want to be poisoned I want to rot For holes tear through my atmosphere For my woodlands to burn For my rivers to turn sludge For my creatures to beg a god for the Reason of this ill My ill is deep Bandaged with science and
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