The Blog

At Squire Point

Julia Anna Morrison

I remember I have a child, vaguely
He wears a raincoat, tiny pine trees on his sailor shoes

I will have to give him away, very slowly
when winter comes. First one night a week, and then two.

Stars on one ceiling: fishes on another

papa is asleep, I say.
I will always want to touch you I said when he left me.

It won’t happen all at once, he said.

First the closets of his winter coats. I braced myself.
It’s a million little things: his skin, the tongues of his shoes

I should have never given birth. I feel a color
he left in my stomach when I am alone, a shovel mark

At quiet hour I hear his papa and I talking before he was born
Our childless voices, our love over the water

But these woods are made of dry paper;
I was right; I could not give birth without losing


Vanessa Moody

this is the physician’s assistant you saw here at Dr. ----’s office
the neurologist            I received just now the results
of the MRI        of your brain
I wanted to go over       the results        uh      of
what we            found there
so if you could give me a call back        some time today
hopefully we can um talk about some of these uh findings
all right            hope you’re doing well
take care buh-bye

your neurologist
um I wanted to review the results of your brain
MRI with you         if uh you could give me a call back    um again

so I’m obviously concerned      about what might be going on
and happy to help you            sorry

Black Girl Magic

Precious Okoyomon

They don’t know what to do with me .. i am fat and black and queer

When was the assertion of blackness anything other than an interrogation.  

I was born. I was a child. I learned and did things.i loved. had those who loved me. I felt
alone. ( theory on self-abolition)  They gave me a muzzle. I asked to be abstracted. 
Loving to disappear. I fell in love with everyone_ peeking over temples_  Shoo shoo
i want to be free.

Spooky Town

Annelyse Gelman

They scare me, the resin casts of men

in flannel shirts and jeans, feet webbed, unfeeling—
the light that glances off the eyes, the knees


wedded to the plastic grass they kneel in.

It scares me: the grass is the kneeling


Subscribe to The Blog