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You’re looking past her
avoiding her eyes, the eyes of the woman in the front line of the protest the one who reminds you of your mother or your mother in law or your grandmother or all of them together. You don’t need to look at her, don’t need to meet the challenge of her eyes, you have the power you have the choice to look past her. Fingers of smoke unspool across the hillside, reaching up to gunmetal clouds above. Charred, sunken beams mark the place where the roof of Boyd Whitefield’s house once stood, blackened giant’s ribs collapsing onto cold soil. In disbelief, I stand in silence; unable to comprehend the ash-covered scene. A shiver of guilt moves through me, and I pull my thin woollen shawl around my shoulders—perhaps, in another scenario, people might stare and say it’s unwise for a young girl to be out on her own, unaccompanied, but the flock of sleep-deprived neighbours peer instead at the decimated building, worrying that a stray cinder might jump from the wreckage and ignite one of their homes. The exhausted firefighters have nearly finished extinguishing the last remaining embers, which sizzle and hiss in protest.
Renata’s family picture showed parents, two kids, and a pet elephant. She invited me to visit her family’s house and I agreed because they lived by a beautiful lake. They owned hotels which gave them the opportunity to socialize with foreigners. Sona, their elephant took daily baths at the lake except in winter, when instead, water was heated and poured over her. All visitors went home with stories of the majestic yet friendly elephant.
“Is it true that elephants never forget anything?” I asked Renata on the train. The emotions I suppressed were forcing themselves through flashbacks. No, she was a girl, it couldn’t be real. “No, it’s just a common myth. Although they do have strong memories” she said. I can count the number of times I’ve done something right on my fingers. The number is zero.
Actually, can nothing be counted? Do you count zero or do you count from zero? I suppose it would depend on the perspective… My protective shell was ripped away. The energy I had built to the brink of explosion—suicidal supernova—surged out. I ought to have been angry, but to be unconfined, feeling the space I flew through again, was glorious.
Alshain? Tarazed? Vega? I called. Who in my family had missed me enough to force contact? I would not forgive them right away, of course, but to finally be accepted… My light was caught as it left my surface, tangled and wound together like the gravity-birth of a star. Not my family missing me then—this could only be the Celestial. You are too late, I said. I pleaded last century. Leave me be. Crafting a compelling drag persona is not about idealizing or mocking the opposite gender. It's a fusion of one-part flash and two-parts ego, a character designed to become a living legend—the captivating stranger you'd eagerly encounter during a night of revelry, where memories are both forged and sometimes forgotten.
While not every Arkansan may entertain the thought of spending a night with a drag queen or a drag king, Eureka Springs stands out as a community that fully embraces diverse and inclusive experiences. The renowned establishment, The Black Catastrophe, draws a significant portion of the gay community to Eureka's main street. Within these vibrant walls, the drinks are skillfully crafted by none other than Diva Demise, given name Walter Cousins, the original winner of Ms. Fierce Arkansas back in '89. As long as she was behind the bar, she was always in costume: a jet-black bouffant, porcelain foundation, and a velvet nightgown with little bat wings on the back. Mr. In, is there really no other way?
can a canvas not, at base, at heart be that wall across from that glass lamp; glares emanating from the forbidding rule of touch. Must you come in with your bleach and cloth on bended knee, on a dozen pills for that line on your forehead and curse wax for its sticking and color for never staying put. The child, small, cannot reach The place where you’ve locked their crayons away; You believe the key gift enough You’ve never believed in pineapple clouds. All that time spent getting over you,
all those years spent flirting with the notion that I could replace you, the man I loved, with a familiarly reminiscent jumble of male academic charisma. Anyone but you, any other pain than the one you gave me was something I could take. Alternating between dominatrix and dominated in my one-woman theatre, I geared up in Western black vegan leather and spun like a Turkish dervish in my dungeon, divinely orchestrating my next emotional torment, all in the name of advancing my heroine’s journey. Trigger warning: words relating to violence and death. Alludes to homelessness, Palestine genocide, mental illness, and the state of this country.
the sinking feeling my my chest informs me that we are doomed bright lights smart phones happy pills just turn it off i can’t go outside pay your bills that pregnant girl doesn’t look older than 15 don’t look the streets are crowded cars rush in urgency it is Sunday i know you looked at me you didn’t stop do you see anything? Mamma was not happy
when she received news that I her horrible daughter had ruined my beautiful porcelain skin Her bitterness only intensified when she learned that I her horrible daughter had chosen to permanently etch on my body one of the creatures she hates most a snake Smudge your face with chemicals
that promise a permanent youth, though your skin will eventually rebel into aging. Straighten your hair with oven heat even when it burns your neck pretend the marks are hickeys, pretend that someone loves you. I pick at the wound of you
without a second thought just an impulse to hurt, an itch I will scratch until bloody. Hidden under the shame of night I stalk your Instagram checking to see how much you still infect me, examine my absence like a reverse archaeologist, question if the meal tasted better without me, the ocean waves more scenic, your life better. My grandma carries salt in her purse --
Seventy-five years and no wound-ups in the hospital. An oil-tanker spilled down I-94 when her collarbone shifted like some kind of western fault. Two sprays at dawn and two in the evening — nasally vinegar-brine up my cavities push down my spine. Food is always salty. Let me wonder how long “A hunger that food cannot fill” (2)
I. A man cuts through her periphery He cuts through the music, Cutting through the soft, short hair By her ear and Removing her earbud, Cutting through her time And her thought And her peace as they’re about to take off Then he swipes through photos His knee still inched into the side of her thigh He cuts through the air with a cough That interrupts the uncaptivating nature of his story Swiped right She found herself, not repulsed by the strawberry pink Folds or the soft smatter of wiry curls But rather The way his oily pointer finger Cut through both. ripped & opened, I pour into a poem half-stripped of me.
It is a girl story napped in oil-beaned skin. maybe a rustic girl crawling into a path her mother first knew blood. before me, & the body posed as fresh daffodils. perhaps, tender & mild like two petite breasts finding expression. like the soothing fragrance of ignorance. & I held my body, the graffiti of a clean slate. & blood gushed to lift this rock off of me was my birthright.
but you. you found a reason to bury me. every day giving me a reason to carry more. i beg you to stop. these rocks are too heavy- ill drop. the weight of everyone's world collapses- onto me. but i still plead. I know this church well. The Walters, our family friends that are faithful church goers,
would drag me here after every sleepover. Us kids would run up and down the aisles when the service finally ended; stealing the pastor’s keys and army crawling under the pews to keep them from him. I’m crammed into those same pews now, the cushions on them are a gross mossy green and the thick air smells like fading incense and Chanel No. 5. It’s not the old, ornate, celestial kind of church. I think it was built in the 70s and hasn’t been touched since. The organ strikes a heavy chord and we all instinctively rise. I tell myself so aggressively not to lock my knees that I wonder if I’ve whispered it aloud. My stomach knots and my heart speeds up. If I lock my knees, I know I’ll faint, or maybe I’ll throw up. The vomit would blend right into these ugly green pews. What a comfort. SOMEWHERE ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF CHICAGO
May 12th, 1925. Dorothy “Dotsy” Elich was born under the sign of the bull and year of the Ox on the Chinese calendar. If that astrological mumbo-jumbo counts for anything, I attribute it to making my aunt the most stubborn and fiercest woman I know. A pale blue belt, golden luminescence
Where the lily wilts. Entangled with the vines beneath the surface, Divine gift to Gaia. The della robbia child. The watcher observes, They were down to their last three dollars. They had sold everything they conceivably
could live without from their little cottage – even their tin silverware. Well, they called it a cottage but it was really more of a hovel, left to only nature’s defenses. Now, they were desperate. Sylvia stared into the near-empty jar sitting atop an old linen tablecloth in the middle of their kitchen table. Perhaps the harder she stared, maybe the longer she didn’t blink, more money would just appear in the jar. Not much, just a quarter or two, but if she tried hard enough, maybe she could somehow solidify the aching hope in her heart for just a few more dollars to make it through this dry spell. A solid kick in her womb pulled her out of her reverie. Sylvia looked down at her swollen belly and let out a long sigh. She felt a flutter, like bubbles popping inside her. The baby must bedoing somersaults, she thought with a tired smile. |