Mother orders a martini. It’s her third, but the flight attendant doesn’t know that. Before we
boarded the plane, she downed two in the gaudy airport bar. She crushes the olive between her
teeth, which she never does because she hates olives. So, because she’s eating it, I know what
that means.
          I tap the back of her free hand. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
          She’s dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “I’m sure those builders needed a
drink every now and again.”
          Around us, everyone is settled in. The engines’ constant low humming is the only sound.
I have the aisle seat, so I can see the bored, empty faces of the other passengers; some read, some
type away on laptop keyboards, and some have headphones in while a film plays on the screens
fixed into the back of the seats. A few just enjoy the view out the window.
          It bothers me how Mother always wants the window seat, but never looks out of it. What
a waste. I crane my neck to see over her clumsy hands—the thin layer of clouds veiling some
rural part of southern Ireland, the sun hanging above us like an ornament, the horizon slicing
through the haze.
          While I’m focused on the view outside, Mother orders another martini. “Less ice this
time,” she tells the flight attendant, who obliges with a curt nod.
          ​I give Mother a look.
          She returns it, and for a moment we’re just staring at each other. “Oh, my god, Millie.
I’m not getting sloshed. Just a couple drinks. Why are you always on my back?”

Trigger Warning: eating disorders

i can feel myself balancing on a ledge,
trying not to slip back into who i once was,
but the pull of it is almost too much to resist.
if i’m not careful, it’ll drag me four stories to the ground,
killing me upon impact.

i feel it in the morning when the cold water hits my empty stomach.
on the days when i open my mother’s sewing box
to hem a skirt that once was too small and see a tape measure.
when i see walk around the grocery store and see a scale,
everything in me longing to step on it and finally know
the magic number that could make or break my day.

my brain says life would be easier if i was starving,
and sometimes i think it’s right.

​lowly
lonely
low-key
i miss the old me
a girl more carefree
less ugly
sweet like honey
no filter
off-kilter
please don’t kill her
she’s pure, clean
serene, sleeping the sleep of a seemingly innocent
dream
girl
don’t scream

In this version of history, Marge
never went to college / Marge went to college briefly / Marge went to
an all-girls college in the Roaring 1920’s /
in pre-revolution Iran / in 2022 Afghanistan / in 2005 Harvard,
when the school’s President attributed underrepresentation
of women in science to:

​Controversy arose
when Marge wore pants / rode a bike / drove a car / played baseball / practiced medicine /
Marge was jailed / sent to an asylum for reading too much and managing
her own finances / Marge was rich and White /
Marge was poor and White / Marge was rich and Latina /

Jason ambled up the trail with his brother Marc. While Marc led the way, Jason lagged behind.
With each step, his boots squeaked on the damp spring grass. Windflowers and sprouting ferns
encircled him with trees that had begun to bud, casting dappled morning sunlight through the
forest canopy.

The air was cool and crisp. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, carrying the freshness of
blooming flowers. It whispered tranquility to his soul. Jason closed his eyes and took a deep
breath, savoring the freshness that filled his lungs.

I can’t believe it’s been so long, Jason thought as his childhood memory of walking on
this trail with his siblings struck him.

“Come on! We don’t have all day!” Marc hollered, looking back at him.

“Would you cut me some slack? I’m doing my best,” Jason said.

Marc chuckled as he watched Jason struggling to keep up. “Looks like you gotta stay a
few more days to let the country air detox your body.”

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.” Jason huffed. “There’s a couple dozen clients waiting
for me back in the city, and I’m the only one who can—”

“Please, don’t start with your banker stuff again. Can’t you take just one week off… for
old time’s sake?”

for Maddie


​You chiffon wrap, you frayed swatch of
Marigold and mustard fabric, how you
Billowed like a ghost trail behind me as I dashed across
The backyard, pretending you were
Flaxen waves sprouting from my crown. My four-year-old mouth refused to eat
Anything other than the wispy tale of
Rapunzel. A fairy, I carried on my imaginary daydreams
Of boar hair bristles smoothing my long locks, each stroke counting down the days
Until my trips to the barber would come less. But my sister
Wasn’t a witch nor was I a pregnant
Woman in this story. All I craved was the long hair
I was denied. My mom always told me:
Fake it till you make it but
I was naked in my little boy haircut.
All I could rely on was the Eidolon
I created for myself. So from my sister’s closet
Shelf, I took you, yellow scarf, golden tulle, and wrapped what little
Semblance of belief in my gender I could suspend during play hour.

“Congratulations.”

That’s what they said.

We celebrated the fact that,
every month, I now have to stare
at scarlet drops
running down the bowl.

They look at me differently
when I walk into class,
or down the street...

everywhere really, tragically.

I won’t lie and say I enjoy their plaudits
even though that’s what they think is true.
​
The way they examine me,
makes me uncomfortable.
I feel the need to hide
for fear I will be snatched up,
so they can fulfill their desire
to get an even closer look
and uncover everything I want
to keep to myself and protect.

What a Rhinestone Means to Me— Duplex

After Jericho Brown

My glamor is my counterculture
Holding an x and y, I defy the suit and tie.

             To my birth, I am not tied
             ​But I cinch my waist with a sash of choice.

Rhinestones over suede is a choice
To persuade a toast in a champagne glass.

             “To your womanhood,” cheers my mirror’s glass
             For she knows how hard I fought for my pearls.

From one synapse, She grew like a pearl
After a grain of estrogen slipped through my lips.

             When I line my eyes and paint my lips
             ​I dot the “i” and cross the “t” in “authentic.”

Watch the queen dressed in authenticity because
Her glamor is her counterculture.

The green dress is stuffed in the back of my closet,
A sign of femininity long ignored.
The twine holding the bag together is fraying.
The tag is smudged but I know what it says:

For graduation.
Love, Mom.

The green dress laughed at me then.
It still does now.
A witch’s cackle, a voice painfully familiar.
A girl your size? Lipstick on a pig.
Every attempt at dressing up was ridiculed.
Every nice outfit was replaced by jeans and a tee shirt.
The same ones I wore to my graduation party.
Black jeans, black shirt, black socks, and dirty Converse.
Camouflage to blend into the shadows.
To disappear from sight.