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Poetry

Red-Coded and Weary

                 As all good girls in red coats know, it isn’t the threat of going in but coming out of the forest that breeds discomfort.   You’re used to finding dead moths in your pockets, mice barrettes clipped to your hair. You’ve wrestled tree roots, chewed darkness   like sap, […]

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The Birds

The city is a wild animal. I am its broken rib. The city is a fallen star woven in the belly of rust. I try to create something out of dust when the words trickle in: What is a dream: What is in a dream: What are dreams made of? We are tenderness woven into […]

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the bud of a dead dream

                 you dream with one eye open in fear that they might be stolen by your mother and sold in the market because she said             dreams are worthless,             they cannot fill bellies,             only empty ambitions          […]

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Cassandra

This poem is dedicated to Ted Chiang. Monday September 23rd, 1991 What is this? A letter I wrote —am writing— for you to find after your brother murders me.                                         Is this a joke? It is not. It’s November 3rd, 2015, and my […]

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Nymph

                                        When she was young my sister would turn herself into a locust. Sometimes she’d do it at neighborhood parties, to impress boys, or Dad’s friends, or one of our many guests. We were jealous of her, for being so beautiful, as a […]

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Operetta

                                        OPERETTA { I attended the operetta with this prince. We reclined in a curtained alcove, I in my tunic of tonics, he in his burgundy dressing gown. On stage, the evening unfolded in a series of months, years, until all resolved in […]

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