In our attic,
among things, as it seems
of past lives,
lives a bitter God.
When guests come to our house,
we don’t mention him.
When we’re alone,
we talk about him quietly,
fearing of being heard.
We do not know exactly when he moved in,
nor do we know why exactly with us.
Maybe because of the serenity.
___
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘I. Am. Legend’, have been used with the permission of artist Patricio Betteo.
Today I am thinking of you and Michigan. Remember how back in the day I didn’t drink coffee? Well, I still don’t care for it
I have not always had my medication to protect me from epilepsy, to keep my hand steady while I handled boiling grease and kitchen
Hauling my suitcase up the unevenly-paved alley, I glance at the second-storey room I share with Komal. Against twilight’s midnight blue, our window glows white.
An independent literary magazine for contemporary fiction, thought, and opinion about popular culture, society, and everything on the periphery.
