“Dead Bananas” is in 12th Street Journal’s 10th issue. Peels on Park Avenue. There is a brown banana sitting on a fruit rack. The dark-wood fruit rack has three tiers that taper to its top. It is a prop reminiscent of the Dutch masters—the scenes they studied with oil paints. If you were to inspect it more closely, you would find a thin layer of dust that gives the rack its Old World earthiness—a real […]
open your lips with rosewater drenched on a cotton pad. mist it on your creases and recite poems on the toilet. take a cold silver vessel. pour three pools of bitter oil. move it into your mouth. swallow. any morning full of empty basins. cup, sink out of water, aching belly. my womb is exhausted. i’d like to write about a phallus occasionally but the literary penis has always been off limits. or everywhere […]
these tongues aren’t mine and it is yet complete tumbling.
Relief, delicious weight, from floating phases hating yourself, especially To be reminded. To make a home in oneself.
& when i get tired of words there’s always an image. exhausted by the sounds that language makes.
Hey, I felt the coldness of my winter I never thought it would ever go I cursed the gloom that set upon us, ‘pon us, ‘pon us, ‘pon us But I know that I love you so Oh, but I know That I love you so These are the seasons of emotion And like the wind, they rise and fall The Rain Song, Led Zeppelin