litany of no pattern except trouble and escapism


oh strange beds on sunday mornings—the light of one less heartbreak. to hold back against rust, talk to me about the sky. oh how we go on mending.

if we were to leave this now, if these were scenes from a life more convinced of easy happiness. the fall’s burnt ochre. i slept on the bathroom floor.

this blue period, if authentic, won’t last very long. even in night rain, the unlit parking lot, your eyes are brilliant. what is the last thing you believe?

monsters are born too strong and far too heavy. dear city: i prefer to leave you behind, but listen for the next ridge; its compliant shape—

i tell you, i can’t explain—it’s merely a feeling. we will not remember the dates, just these endless wants of ours. three years from now, when the wind catches my hair.


[BIO]: O. is a queer writer, educator, and agent of change, who serves on the Board of Directors for The Mama Project, which promotes women’s literacy in developing countries.



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