No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
“I’ll come see you one day, promise.” Kiara tottered over to him. She gave him another hug, despite his evident discomfort.
She seemed to like him, in a maternal way. He liked her too. She was smart and funny. She had great taste in music.
Deep down, she must have known something wasn’t right in her relationship with Miles. In breaking them up, he was doing them both a kindness.
My need to write, to turn my pain into art, led me to appreciate great writing.
Me, I was a squirrel. I was small. But I was agile.
There is no tale-teller, no bagpipe to thread these words in rhythms: sounds, seizures, thoughts that linger and bloat a mind.
You say you want to know, that a god should put all their stuff behind those eyes, all your heaven, a whole sun —plasmatic and self-consuming— attached in one weird head.
You don’t even have a lawn,
yet you present yourself, a violin in one
hand, bow in the other, head back in
song, the only who of us who’s free.