184 miles on a full tank, snow on the ground, muddied as third act makeup, seventy miles an hour, headlight out, books at my side like wallflowers
Two poems by Michael Chang.
2 poems by I.S. Jones.
I am seven when the world turned incomprehensible for the first time.
A hybrid piece by Özgecan Kesici.
I’m not sure about the white spaces (louder line breaks, perhaps?), but the fragments are often a result of my thriftiness.
From the wombs / of true believers, / I came out faithless
The idea of one person owning every single bird of a specific species within any territory was wild to me, but I was far from home, and racing against the rain as we made our way to Buckingham Palace.
Small bottles of Suntory snuck into his daily allowance of tea / who was I to rat him out when he grinned with silver crowns showing?
not just the sting of the whip, the nothingcoloredblue of the ocean / or the spaces so dark and putrid and red black brown fleshsmelling