In memory of last week’s shooting, Orlando-based writer Nathan Holic presents the following graphic memoirs.
They’re feeding while we sleep. Conifers, acorns, sweet clover. Crepuscular. They must tell each other stories in whatever tongue they speak. Each fawn makes its own distinct bleat. Does the mouth makes a sound for gun, arrow, berry, or flee? Arrested between the bramble and the suburban street […]
The house shuddered all day, trying to cast
me out, but I would not abandon.
With a trembling smile, the scientist sat facing her beakers and test-tubes. She had long ago turned her bedroom into a chemistry lab and surrounding her was a deranged rainbow—hundreds of chemicals that mixed in the right proportions could spew forth neon clouds or explode the ten-story apartment building entirely.
Not every reader of poetry is looking for the next big manifesto of political survival and over-determination; the poem that vanquishes other new books of poetry and inaugurates a new age of linguistic trapeze.
At 10 centimeters dilated, after eighteen hours of labor, and maybe just to make me feel better, my nurse admits to once masturbating under her desk for the eyes of an intern and surgical fellow.
Here I am, a thinly veiled excuse,
piety prettied in a party dress,
a child bride among child brides.
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