// the trembling of the space between our atoms, aching for connection across every possible universe.



read the rest of this poem here!



my chest aches like an / abandoned house, all / crumbled brick, shattered / glass. my hands are empty / window frames – no shine, / only absence. these are / the ties that bind us / together. how nature / will always reclaim our / bodies, sending vines through / ribcages, trees through hearts, the slow / regrowth. someday, they / will find us side by / side, finger bones mingled / like kindling. i would give / this yearning heart / to you, ribboned & / bloody, beating thunder against / your palms. would you / accept it?

turn forward the clocks / on our change. metamorphose / with me into something / brilliant & cratered. we will / be shining creatures / at last.


sappho, fragment 24A

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[bracketed = from translation by anne carson]

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deathbed prayers & wishbones
snapping at family dinners have
this in common: a concept
unreachable, grasped for.
to resuscitate a human, you must
first break their sternum. the
snap of bone, the under-skin
shatter, something broken
in saving. your fingers
slipping in grease, grasping
at a bone-white wish. imagine
a land farther south, where
the sun rises crooked like
ribs, a road less traveled
than the one your feet have
found. make a wish. feel
the break of bone in your hands.


fall to the depths,
find the places
no one has touched
for decades. unlock
the doors, breathe
light into the corners.

you, heralded
by sky blue. you,
carrying your own
fate in hands
that have not slept.

caught in some
greater design.
bringing a piece
of a higher world
down to tartarus.
when you
have found yourself
down there,


atychiphobia – fear of failure, fear of not being good enough

there’s a species of shark that can
survive for four hundred years. they
live in polar waters, slow-moving,
growing half an inch a year. i think
you could have been friends, if you
had stayed – with the same stubborn
approach to living, one step after
another, inexorable yet tectonically
slow. living where nothing has any
right to grow. i may have been
the ghost shivering over your shoulder,
may have been the quiet voice in
your ear, but it is only now that i
am alone again that i can admit to you,

you shark, you creature of the open
ocean, that i have always danced at
the edge of failure, fear a knife wound
in this steel body. that your coming
was no accident, that my downfall
is only the final ending of a slow
growth, half an inch at a time. you
built me back up with the same hands
that tore me down and left a taste
of moondust in my mouth.

so swim free, my shark, and never
come back. this fear has melted in
the face of your triumph.

summer solstice

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