Their rage so loud she stopped hearing it. Telephone wires ran through her body and tugged her in different directions the way exile does. The way the world falls and the sea begs when love limps. The way numbers climb the wind like death tolls when oppressors are free.
The phone rang, but I couldn’t answer
There were clouds of smoke
curling around my head
I was only real when I
touched myself.
With each impulse, the current your heart siphons from the phone line will slowly render the vision of Self in vibrant color. Your grey tongue will begin to blush, too. When it swells with the metal-sweet taste of saffron, you will know that this vision of Self is real enough to power its own flow.
In August of 2021, I visited my place of birth, the Dominican Republic. A couple…
Every year, Aster(ix) nominates some of our best work in poetry, story, and nonfiction for…
Once, I too ripped the shards of crystal from the skies and plummeted down headfirst…
What I Love Most?… I love that one tendril of auburn hair You know… The…
As I sit in the warm-but-not-hot sun, I count the figs on the fig tree,…
