All it takes is a few major news stories, a massive year-long outpouring of women sharing their pain, and a whole three-day documentary for you to see what a raging fuckhead you are!
POETRY
Doing Donuts in an ’87 Mustang 5.0
I don’t know if I made these knuckles for nothing. They came from home.
ESSAY
Haunted at Home
Haunted, some might call it. I say, At home. The past is here, ripe and palpable, reaching out to us. Hoping we reach back.
MICRO
Was he Billy Pilgrim?
One morning, when our tea kettle could no longer whistle, we took our car out to Lanesboro, eyes still sticky with sleep, to an old diner, unfamiliar then, where a man sitting at the counter, face sun-spotted and forgotten, slumped over a cold cup of coffee, his body, seemingly immovable, turned towards us with movement […]
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Katharina Kepler’s Confession (1546-1622)
I laugh—oh the things I would have conjured / could I conjure: silicone Ohropax, flashlights, / popsicles, plastic diapers, tampons— / I was always on my period
Fish Bone
I stop crying in the hospital lobby, because there I am confronted with companions in wailing I cannot compete with. Women crying, squeezing snot from their noses with their thumb and forefinger and flinging it at the ground.
Excerpt from American Symphony: Other White Lies
there are certain kinds of sorrow which lose their humanity once exposed. for this reason, a story is a weapon insofar as it promises to uncover, transcend, manifest.
The Geographies of Violence
The woman is still wiping blood off her face when a throng of villagers envelops her. You can no longer reach her amid the swarm that surrounds her.
