Tag: new fiction


When I go to sleep I do not see monsters, it is your slight figure,
the windows are open and you give it to me easy with sugar and
I still don’t know what too much of a good thing can do, sugar
leave the drapes open—those moonlines have kept me up for fortnights,


I whisk myself away, and
appetite follows. My stomach growls
when it’s horny–I mean hungry.
One of my favorite albums is
Sex and Food by Unknown Mortal Orchestra.


sent message
sent messenger
while waiting for word
winter fell and fell away

The Pen

In all my years of collecting, there’s only one thing I had as a child that I’ve not been able to find. A clear plastic sectional pen. Actually, it was more like a wand.

The Attic Doesn’t Lead to Antarctica

The problem with me, he says, is that my parallel is too nice, thereby making me too mean. Apparently it’s because I clamshell up even though we live a 10-minute walk from a pho place with the best Bun Bo Hue in Sunnyvale, because even pho can’t drag me out of this house, from under its short ceiling that feels closer to squashing me into the ground every morning, from the rails of the balcony overlooking the street where I can hear gunshots every several nights even though this area is supposed to be super gentrified, full of software engineers and their 4K monitors.


In the blue light of your bedroom
I could be anything: housewife
mending the shadows as they drape
the clothesline, ghost boy, music
pulled from the belly of the lake.

The Apocalypse Survivor’s Aubade

I know you’re out there, lost in your pillows
of ash and grief, to rise only to mourn

yesterday, today, and all tomorrows,
wrapped alone in strange strangling sheets, worn

as little shrouds after the little death
of another sunset celebration.

Each night a worship of pink delights, breath
held captive in our private elation

Neatly Obsessed with Being

am neatly obsessed with warm concrete
am neatly obsessed with my favorite water brand
am neatly obsessed with tercets & triplet hearts
am neatly obsessed with names that a hold a home
am neatly obsessed with streets that overflow in obscurity
am neatly obsessed with trails that go on for miles
am neatly obsessed with packages that read like blankets