“Two Stories About Drowning” & “Self-Portrait as a Dead Dog”
Come to the dinner table without the day’s baggage. Eat with a smile on your face.
“if it is violence that turns boys into men,/
it must be love that turns them into fathers”
This made for juicy morsels of gossip for the goûter at four o’clock
How learning a third language became a place of reconciliation for my mother tongues.
She was named / for her village / for the apricot blossoms / for the sweet waters of the lake / for her petal earlobes / for her mother’s scent
I am a woman in the same way my grandmother is a woman and Ma is a woman. That is to say, we were etymologically forced into it.
Gardaya’s letters offer glimpses into his fruitless search for love and acceptance in America
Say something ordinary. Repeat it until it no longer sounds ordinary.
A conversation with Weike Wang about humor, Joan is Okay, and writing.
I’d rather be a glimpse than a girl. Good. I’ll rest here for now.
I feel every hot girl word deep in my/ bones, because in life, I’m most attracted/ to people who show power without raising/ their voices.
I wrack my brain for ways of describing this pain but nothing original comes to mind.
Mei had been in jail for six months and a handful of days.
“Thumb over the halo-halo layers ghostly over the seated pink mini” and “I will tell an old story of my name”
More things fall from the sky now.
Come to the dinner table without the day’s baggage. Eat with a smile on your face.
Say something ordinary. Repeat it until it no longer sounds ordinary.
“if it is violence that turns boys into men,/
it must be love that turns them into fathers”
A conversation with Weike Wang about humor, Joan is Okay, and writing.
This made for juicy morsels of gossip for the goûter at four o’clock
I’d rather be a glimpse than a girl. Good. I’ll rest here for now.
How learning a third language became a place of reconciliation for my mother tongues.
I feel every hot girl word deep in my/ bones, because in life, I’m most attracted/ to people who show power without raising/ their voices.
She was named / for her village / for the apricot blossoms / for the sweet waters of the lake / for her petal earlobes / for her mother’s scent
I wrack my brain for ways of describing this pain but nothing original comes to mind.
Mei had been in jail for six months and a handful of days.
I am a woman in the same way my grandmother is a woman and Ma is a woman. That is to say, we were etymologically forced into it.
“Thumb over the halo-halo layers ghostly over the seated pink mini” and “I will tell an old story of my name”
More things fall from the sky now.
Gardaya’s letters offer glimpses into his fruitless search for love and acceptance in America
