Issue 125

I am Yours, Yours only, however time
might wear me away

My native leniency inside your rage
becomes itself a hellish surge, otherworldly.

From his balcony, the night sky is a portal to a pinhole
of other lives—some barely visible.

i. MANY PEOPLE DIE in the book of Genesis, and we are, for the most part, told where the bodies are buried. We know what happens to the corpses of Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob, Leah, Rachel, Joseph. We sometimes get details about the procurement of a burial plot or the reconciliation of estranged brothers…

God is a watering hole, I dreamed

Each day, my I changes forms. It’s why I stick to the sonnet:
I like the continuity of it—each day with its plan to queer the Diane.

My mother and I are driving five hundred miles to see a replica of a mystery.

I stand beside my mother & her tree, picker in hand, ——–—extending the rod, aiming for an apple in apparent ecstasy, fullness aflame, ——–—aquiver in the favonian breeze, brilliant as the seed that gave it birth ——–—when its need in the soil first cast a vision for this grandeur: autumn day brandishing ——–—sapphire sky, air…

Growing up between silence and discussion, repression and resilience, shaped my understanding of freedom as both political and personal. This understanding informs my art today.

Loneliness, everywhere
Within especially

Folded into myself