I dreamt of the mystery woman, still faceless, and I woke up haunted.
She bites at a knuckle hoping to draw her private, savage joy. What’s it taste like? You don’t want to know. You can’t imagine how hard it is to stop after.
You harness the light like the love of a good horse, your word is law among the stars and the sand, patron saint of all things misunderstood in the daytime.
She’s gone. Stop knocking.
What did I do today.
I walked through Costco
dissociated,
watching a woman who looked like me
push a cart
like this is the world.
Like this is what we’re
His unbuttoned shirt, his summer breakfast. The gesture of his mouth was the opening of unsaid words.
Love is like a museum. You have to look around, experience things, and then leave.
"[Her Lesser Work] is a collection of mordant and formally inventive stories circling themes of, let’s say, desire and escape within repressive structures."
-Walker Caplan, Literary Hub
