A collection of 30 posts
For my best friend Jess If you leave me alone in your room I will endeavor to know you better. I will analyze your accidental piles and the things on the wall. I'll take stock of new trinkets postcards and concert tickets. I will slip into your chair
at all times. Basically, I’m pretty good at straining the little dry bits out of the day. I save them for parties and people named Becky–anyone who deserves a little bitter. Okay, I’m not a monster. The moment I open my bag, the world becomes yellow.
(Or: That Time I Saw Lisa LeBlanc in DC) One day late in 2023, I learned that another Acadian would soon be in Washington, DC. I moved to DC four years ago for grad school. Since then, I've been linguistically lonely. Like most other Acadians, I speak a
two graphite dots folded into a wormhole me before and me after a year collapsed are you swimming in early safety and satisfaction? how physical is this missing i carry you a concept in my pocket us then and us now
Multimedia mulching: Friendships as two pieces of art and a swing Good morning. I am here to talk about friends. I am navigating a big hearted heartache at the loss of some friendships and I am living in the inbetween the next sense of fullness and the previous sense of
What’s in my pockets? Why do you wanna know? It’s not much I promise just a few loose stones for good luck! A penny I picked up about a block ago also for good luck or maybe it’s good fortune what’s the difference again? I’ve
Dear Editor, I grew up in a seaside town called Wehmpest, a place somewhere between where train lines vanish and where postal routes are only charted by memory. It's a real place to be sure. People from neighboring provinces pass through it all the time without knowing it.
If not cities, what would Eros build? Perhaps what he already builds quite often, like a dark galaxy of water cupped in the hand, a shared draught of love, that even now is without dominance in its expanding empire, knit of satisfaction and ease, past the empyrean of the known
i am many beautifully articulable things. i am small; i fit in the scooping basket of your arms when i allow the interruption, which is almost always. i speak in perfect, bright chirps, some that sound more like words than others, but my language is my own secret that i
you pocket a wilted string of saliva. Shared mouths planted on heat. Ancient and new. We can find sex in the thrift store sales bin. And it would still cost our fortunes. Times a pocket or two.
