I imagine her
walking into my bedroom—Drunk
between her legs, the whole world
the same temperature;
I ask the sun to call me at night on my walk home. Everyday I become a little more scared. I recognize people and cars and it makes me nervous. My mother told me girls are most likely to be
I thought about taking a picture of the book or, perhaps, a selfie of me holding the book up against my face. I’d upload this photo to facebook or twitter with a caption like, “The journey begins”
LOL. When I send you emails re: feminism I feel like I'm trolling you. It isn’t that you don’t care about equal rights and access. It’s just that it’s not “your bag” to talk about it a whole lot.
Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like squeegeeing sewage out the back door of the break room for three hours. Or push-brooming a greenhouse until your black snot could be used as an adhesive. Cupping each writhing Bag-a-Bug to see if they’ve eaten their fill of Japanese beetles.
I breathed in deeply, not knowing at the time I was breathing in the lives of all those at the café, those I sat with just moments before, molecules sliding from the rubble of the explosion into my lungs, bones nestling behind bones.
I never knew a woman who wasn’t capable of killing me with a sentence. Until now?
One night your boyfriend sleepwalks to the kitchen and brings a handful of M&Ms back to bed. You wake to bleary chocolate splotches on the sheets. You’re annoyed because they’re your nicest
Spring was flipper-fitting season for young Olympic hopefuls like Jeannie. Although it was only March, Jeannie already had her gill implants; Dr. Rickman, a leading expert in the field of
Peter first met (well, you know. "Met.") Leona when he was five years old. It would be thirty years before he would spend every austral summer counting penguins on a tiny field station in
I want to call you and sing the Prince song, discuss the proportions of his tiny frame, imagine his tongue together, stay on the phone for hours like we used to. Those days are gone.
My roommate lives her life differently. This is what she claims.
Antarctica wants you dead.
The research scientists bundle you up in outside-resistant clothing and put you outside the insulated walls of the research station. Your feet sink into the dry white
You are obsolete. The cashier in your neighborhood’s grocery store is obsolete. The typesetter—who placed each individual letter for the headlines of the morning paper—is obsolete. Tollbooths barely require someone to stand sentry in the middle of the highway to collect coins anymore and soon enough lasers will replace surgeons in operating rooms as well.
She had different stories for different people.
“Lost it in a hunting accident.”
“Shot off in the war.”
“Born without it.”
“Bandsaw.”
“Woodchipper.”
“Gangrene.”
Each
I imagine Temperance Brennan's annual gynecological exam might go something like mine: If you're not finding time to eat, you must not be having a lot of... Are you seeing anyone right now?
How we pretended to be other people for fun: “Hi, what’s your name?” she asked. “Bill,” I said. “Bill, huh? I can think of a lot of words that rhyme with Bill.”
And here comes this very small girl – this fairly attractive small girl – getting real thug with me suddenly. Suddenly thug. This petite white girl getting suddenly thug. And she physically pushed me saying “Wrong fucking pile!” She was angry about this pile.
If one person can take from this that it is not about privilege, it is not fiction versus poet, it is none of the internet fashions of complaint and it is not anonymous (even though I am any-goddamn-pleasing-way anonymous with or without my fucking name) ...
My fault for side-stepping the usual male pretense at sensitivity or smug confidence of manipulation. I’ve saved it all for this fucking Lish frottage of a sentence.
