essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
a chant begins
a loud doleful wail
smear my body in holy oil
adorn my head with your crown of thorns
It’s not that she wasn’t happy for her sister, far from it. Nadia only wished she could hold on to her for a little longer.
My soles are gelatinous, a mixture of blood, and yoke.
my father wanted to recreate the grapes
grow his own over our tiny backyard in the suburbs just outside the city
his vision was three separate plants,
arching and twisting their vines from our neighbor’s garage to ours
I swirl my eyes inside the paint
tears forming at the edges of me
January and the New Year are often dreaded in their insistence that we look back on what we have achieved, or what we meant to. This year, the looming of March feels the same, with its marking of the anniversary of the initial lockdown. It is easy to be hard on the progress you have…
Zones one to three have become a long-distance relationship.
Underground, Hades and his sardine dead
reach their eleventh hour
My mother packed eggs sunny side up,
Spam slices golden-browned to perfection
tucked into my lunchbox.
and what does it mean
that her blood still sings
through the Old Quarter
of my veins?
The angel comes unbidden
on a Thursday morning,
knocking briskly, handing me
a pineapple and thirteen coral-tinted roses.
Through photography and sculpture, I question how the manipulation of behaviour and patterns dehumanises society.
will you give me gentle hand grips and the space I need
to feel sorry for myself?
