The threat of tariffs and their likelihood to disrupt the supply chain for my sustenance is something that keeps me up at night.

And when they’re moved from the table, are they held? Was she ever held?

The youngest of hand-me-downs lost in britches, too big, too big?

Sailor's serenade - the white lines of tight hips, thighs shadow-black with folly's froth

A grave doesn’t say no to a corpse. A hole doesn’t reject what it’s told is treasure.

I can stitch together a self. There must be shops. Or apps.

never faced a boy until class ended, continually turning, a sturdy ballerina

in bed I saw this pain above me like a demon

These places are terrifying. And kind. And sometimes, there, I catch a glimpse of myself—not smaller, not prettier, not transformed. Just present. Just allowed.

buried somewhere in the blood was a promise that our flesh is not “forever”

but for now it’s how much pain do I have to push through to get to the garage