Yet if there is a rip in the fabric of the universe, as some scientists speculate, a tear through which time and space can dissolve into nothing, it is also a gateway to the body of a woman who birthed all these planets looking like heads freed from their bodies.
She climbed the stairs. She found her ledge, that hiding spot. That safety. She sat down not knowing what to do next, but preparing for something. Considering. Brain space tangled up in the logic of if she should do this. She was no longer safe in her life, could no longer find that space of solace.
She walked up five flights to find it.
I am half the me I was before you. Crease my skin and apply steady pressure. My flimsy lungs will tear because you don’t know which flaps to fold and I can only take so much wear.
You make eye contact with the goddess. Her expression seems to ask if you have gotten what you came for. You trust your smile conveys that to her, and with the slightest perception of sound, no movement in her lips, she tells you, “This is just our first introduction.”
lotus-kneed, showered in gasoline.
People bowing to him, silent
but for his flesh
White boys will keep asking for dirty nothings in my first language. White boys will ask me to read their poetry, ask me to talk dharma, talk sushi, talk Stanley Kubrick, talk so horny, white boys will say they never made it with one of me and there’s going to be jazz in a ruined room.
Native people say the distinction between stories in our culture and theirs is that the land is a character itself, not setting
Our non fiction editor for November and December is Elissa Washuta. Elissa is a member of the Cowlitz Indian Tribe and a writer of personal essays and memoir. She is the author of two books, Starvation Mode and My Body Is a Book of Rules, named a finalist for the Washington State Book Award. Her work has appeared in …
Our poetry editor for November and December is Dawn Lundy Martin, who is an author of three books of poetry, and three chapbooks. Of her latest collection, Life in a Box is a Pretty Life (Nightboat Books 2015), Fred Moten says, “Imagine Holiday singing a Blind alley, or Brooks pricing hardpack dandelion, and then we’re seized and thrown into the festival of …