To mix a cocktail is to tell a story. Each bottle you pour from has a history, some mundane and some grandiose. And when you combine each ingredient, whether to create a classic of the trade or something new, the finished product inherently takes on life. Narrative. The Manhattan, for example. The first time that a bartender plucked the whiskey and the sweet vermouth and the bitters from their shelf, stirred the ingredients over ice, and strained the dull red concoction into a coupe, they …
incubator, talking point, someone’s mother, sister, daughter, girlfriend—at least I could be. Sometimes the closet, and by that, I mean the hanger. Sometimes both the case & the point, asking for it, a burden, a dowry, a score to be settled, a martyr. The hunger & its clarity. Always, the target for the devil’s advocate. Sometimes, feminine divine—both Kali, the killer & Persephone, raped then killed. Sometimes the oppressor herself, white feminism with all its allegiance to …
“Got a boyfriend?” The red-faced doctor with big hands asks, leaning over Cindy’s pubes. “Kind of.” Cindy blushes. Watching French films with Jerry isn’t really dating. The only guy at school sharing her passion for Truffaut and Godard, he talks nonstop about cinematography and mise-en-scene. Driving them to the Vogue in his dad’s new ’76 Subaru, his long fingers dance along the steering wheel as he gushes about hand-held cameras and jump cuts. “Your mother was smart to …
My dream begins like a fairy tale. Wild wolves are in the house—not tame ones, like the insipid talker that seduced the girl in red—but loud, howling wolves. Their mouths open, their teeth gleaming. A whole pack of them disrupting a party my mother has planned for weeks. They tear through the buffet: the carefully arranged relish tray, perfectly seasoned chicken casserole, elaborately decorated raspberry torte. Not to mention what they do to the guests. Terrorizing people I don’t even …
First assignment: Underline the words that describe you. My father has a hunchback for beauty. Gunshot in Borno— girls do not know how to smile. Last summer, like before, the sun is an assault in the mouth of a dwarf Jamal threw a rock at my pelvis, Simi fell in love, so she sang Complete me. This is a type of poem for ghosts. Sometimes, when I try to cry, I am often betrayed by my tears Second Assignment: Use those words to form the mouth of a poem. The language of our grief is a …
The boy in the TV has golden streaks like honey in his hair and two blue diamonds for eyes, face open like a window streaming sunlight. Watch as his brows furrow over inscrutable hazel orbs, jet black hair slicked smooth and reflecting pale moonlight. The boy in the TV is a shapeshifter, and now he has your attention. The boy in the TV accumulates every fantasy you’ve concocted and reflects them all back to you, a beautiful mirror of your mind. He reminds you of a boy you dreamed …