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Literature
Our Issues
Your heart grew up in a black wooden box
and thought it fabulous,
its world of
right angles,
wood grain,
and eternal night.
It hated me when I bored the hole
that let the sun singe its eyes, cook its skin,
when rain collected the dirt on its skin
in a puddle beneath its feet and said:
"look how dirty you are, foul thing."
It hated and
hated and
still hates,
always crawling
under any
box it finds.
I kicked it
out of its hiding place.
It ran out howling, hating and being
ha
Literature
Teachers to the Dead
While we slept,
you strapped your arm around
my chest like armor and possession,
like ‘this one belongs to me.’ Together, we are
teaching the things that haunt us
to lie down in their graves.
Here, like this
your demons say to mine as
they demonstrate the art of behaving.
Together, we secure their
broken bodies and set them into six feet of
downward motion.
(but we do not follow
we cannot go in their stead)
They do not know they’re dead. It’s
always a blow when we break the news.
They find themselves jealous of our
human skin and our inhaling
exhal
Literature
Originals
Originals
The conch's twist holds
an old world. Just beyond the glossy rim
where the shell curves out of sight
a half-full bottle plunges
into the sea. The green glass
has no end, its sides spreading
light like a coloured lens. But this ocean
is a dark edge, as if eyes had never lifted
its hard dermis. A wave curls
and becomes icecream in a turqouise bowl. You
are here, looking through spirals at someone else
who is you. The bowl empties
and a cold signifier stings the skull.
This time it is no echo
of the sea's thousandfoot rush, or the tang
of stale salt inhaled from a pinkwhite lip. This time
you are there. The ic
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