You get high, I’ll have a drink. They’re just words,
same as sediment, same as palpate. Let’s make
something small to steward together, one
little saxophone player with a reed
in his mouth. You can grow thin and still be
yourself, coax a beard and button your coat,
while I’ll keep wanting it all: every man
and woman I meet. But we’re done
throwing chairs at people we don’t really
love. Hand me that bottle, kiss me goodnight,
spin me around our old kitchen.
In this 28th edition of Waccamaw, the Nigerian poet Fasasi Abdulrosheed Oladipupo unpacks the meaning…
[wc_row] [wc_column size="one-half" position="first"] Editorial Team Nonfiction Editor: Amy Singleton Poetry Editor: Brittany Davis Poetry…
The S.C. Creative Sociology Writing Competition invited undergraduate and graduate students from any discipline in…
Museum: a depository of grief displayed aesthetically; I carry the mishaps of things I want…
we say the knife is dead, or the mouth of the knife is dead because…
This website uses cookies.