XOXO
Art by Kim Salac
February 24, 2021
Nestled books
and nested damp hair.
Warm bread and blood-
bloodied
Bloodied bird striking bars; ceramic skull cracked open.
You could’ve held it between two fingers, that small stony thing.
Those steely feathers now matted
your voice buried in static;
pounded piece of clay, caged squarely in chest,
a terracotta truth-
that bird, your voice, this earthly woman,
suddenly in unison:
Art by Kim Salac
February 24, 2021
The average color of the universe is cosmic latte—a light beige. Not a dark, swirling black or a brilliant flash of yellow. A warm, boring, in the middle beige. Perfectly suited for Goldilocks. I’d like to imagine that if all of my experiences were poured into a glass jar and mixed like a can of paint, a pristine shade of cosmic latte would emerge.
I keep thinking about the format of Jeopardy: it starts with answers and ends with questions. How different this is from life.
Art by Kim Salac
November 18, 2020
“There is no springtime on Venus, nor
any other season—no seasons in hell!”
- Allan Treiman
Who named Venus the planet
of love? Yes, it’s bright, blinding
as lust’s hot passion. Year round
the forecast reads a balmy 870
degrees, blistering enough to melt
metal—lead, bismuth—not us,
though (human bodies yearn, burn
in an untold heat). But Pluto’s spring
Art by Kim Salac
October 28, 2020
(I have no idea if the purple flowers I saw were actually heal-alls but I am always itching for good omens)
I sometimes look out at birds and wish I was them. And mountains
Oh, the mountains,
Sending tears down their slopes
rippling and shaking
You’re halfway there
The overlook is worth it
Mud-lined and alive
Breathing
Smooth rock beneath slick shoes, slipping
Beds of
Art by Kim Salac
October 13, 2020
I Try Not to Consider the Lilies
I try not to consider the lilies
or think of how they are arrayed
because I know that they are greater
than any earthly king.
Because when I do consider the lilies
I toil and spin in ways I’m not supposed to
Because I can’t want them and
I’m not allowed to have the others
so I burn in the fields as I’m asked
so that I don’t ask any more
Art by Kim Salac
September 29, 2020
sometimes I read my old writing and I think, god, she really let the cringe jump out there, and other times I think with definitive certainty, I will never be able to write words so beautiful ever again. words will never leave me like that again.
it’s been so long since I’ve written.
I think the words bled out slowly, left my mouth high and dry with an aftertaste of bitterness (I chew gum to keep it out).
I
Art by Kim Salac
September 29, 2020
Looking in the mirror I see my scars, messy curls, and oversized shirt, as I try to fix myself up for the day. Sometimes I don’t want to pick up my phone because society is just depressing. Over the summer, social media was filled with constant Black deaths, which made this pandemic even harder to go through as a Black woman. Every day it was another child missing, another Black life lost, another Black Trans woman killed, another white woman abusing a Black person. After all this pain, I’d
Art by Kim Salac
September 29, 2020
The evening began as it always did on these occasions. As our moms set popcorn and brownies on the green countertops, they warned us that they would be back to pick us up early the next morning. My cousins and I grumbled and argued that the next day would be Saturday, and we wanted to stay longer. It never mattered how well we argued our case, my mom and my aunt would be back at the first ray of daylight with my Grandpa’s pancakes barely off the pan (he always made pancakes and still does
September 15, 2020
Days turned to weeks turned to months at home to reduce the spread of COVID-19, and thus, remote activities were performed to the fullest degree. Hobbies such as baking became the preoccupation of enough of the population to cause flour to become a coveted item—and quite understandably. As Apple very generously reminded me each week that my screen time had increased substantially, I felt a desire to work with my hands, feigning a return to “real life” and subsequently submitting myself to
July 03, 2020
When I look back at my time with the Women’s Center, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. After three years, the time seems to blur slightly. The things I do recall are fewer specific moments and more themes of constancy—unvarying inspiration, exploration, and vulnerability.
I remember, after months of feeling lost and insecure as a first year, a phone call with Mary about my application to Iris. It was supposed to be an interview, and while I can’t pinpoint exactly