One Hundred and Sixteen.


Izzy circle


my hair’s falling out in tiny fistfuls
little clumps that don’t seem to come from anywhere
is this it? am I finally, truly, my father’s daughter?
am I becoming the son he never had,
inheriting the male pattern baldness gene,
the wide arms, long limbs, heavy eyes
the lines crackling around a breaking smile?
the tulips are falling to pieces too.


Sarah circle


They never licked – they roared
Belched into the inky sky
A pyre, a beacon, a sight to behold
And big-eyed families came side-stepping into the street
The red gold light fanning their cheeks
We never do go to mass
But we’ve ravenous for a cataclysm



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