Cities Without Cafes

“Maybe, if there were more of us in the city insisting on just the small things in life, and we had a space to exist, he wouldn’t have to die.”

The Rites of a Light Heart

Their husbands’ rigid fists became hands glib with plant soil, and instead of bruises down their thighs, they saw hickies planted like booby-traps along their collarbones.

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black and white photo of a man's hands behind his back, holding his wrist


There's been a mistake, I said. That's not my father.

black and white photo of rumpled bedsheets


Biomedicine is a shameless Cartesian purgatory committed to betraying Black bodies the way it betrayed my mother.

colored pencil drawing of a scapula and clavicle


I’ve classified myself and shaped my worth by my bones, by the skeletons of the people I used to be, and by the bodies of the people who left their marks on me.


he bends me over and asks me to call him daddy so i say who? or blocked

Little Doves

He calls us his little birds, his little doves. We do not call him God. He tells us this.

A Girl Turns To Stone

Once, she turned to stone mid-stroke and suddenly sank to the bottom of the lake, where whitefish darted between her arms like children running an obstacle course.