Death of the Little Self
There are no I’s in these poems / there are only eyes in these poems. My gaze is exact, though my reliance is on another layer, another fold—I take these stories from the evening news, from the digital...
View Article10 Ways to Get Her
You should ask yourself: do you really want to get a woman like this? Do you really want to get/win her? Do you really want to get/understand her? If you are the type of person who likes the status...
View ArticleMy Sister’s Hands / My Son Confesses
Thickened calluses. One finger crippled to quarter moon, and the index, childhood impaled, bearing jagged scars.
View ArticleI Don’t Understand a Thing About Family Heirlooms
She holds it out for me to touch, and as if I’m unsure that the death is fully removed from that chain, I touch it briefly, ready to wash my hands. The metal is cold like a body.
View ArticleInk-stone
you are a brush of calligraphy sweeping designs across my belly ink splattering circles and symbols like a string of black lipped oyster pearls strewn between my thighs
View ArticleThe Way Your Husband Walks Beside You
The doctor asks, were you blue as death or infancy? Metal on flame and bearing it or mad, embracing it, I say. Without praise.
View ArticleIn sleep, an event must make our forgetting
Elsewhere I was a daughter, I was a mother, I was either/or.
View Articlesound of chromosomes
No matter how hard one tries to expel nomenclature, the minor keys linger in all-night gas stations.
View Article“Waltzing out of it, in oyster silk” / Langdon House
My sleeves are an open tin. I mean it like it is — like it sounds. You wouldn’t even recognize me: opera-length, quellazaire held like a spear held like a periscope.
View ArticleSo to Speak Fiction Contest Results
So to Speak is excited to announce the winner and finalist from this year’s Visual Art contest, judged by Emily St. John Mandel, award-winning author of Station Eleven.
View Article
