Kim Salac
Kim is currently an Aunspaugh Fellow with UVA's Department of Art. In their free time, they love watching Moonlight director commentaries or films in general, being a mediocre cook, and exploring fashion. As a queer artist of color, their work often reflects a desire to unpack the spaces we live in and the identities we hold close as a means to push for social justice. Their portfolio can be found at kimsalac.com
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My neighbor at my childhood home was a mechanic. He and I used to race on Ripsticks up our long shared driveway in the afternoons after school. Whenever I saw the light on and the garage door open to his shop, however, I’d throw my bookbag down and book it over to watch him tinker with a metal conglomeration in the hood of a car.
*This piece talks about mental health, and some aspects of this piece may be triggering for someone recovering.
Away from home with imposter syndrome
Fading far from the plight of perfectionism
Taunted by the unexplored, not on any exec boards
Sometimes struggling to just get out of bed
I tear the crinkly green wrapper open as I’m stepping out of the CVS. Hands searching the smooth, plastic exterior for the tiny ribbed circle wheel in the upper right corner. The black and lime disposable camera is so light in my hands, I wonder how it can capture anything at all.
Cher Ami
For heaven’s sake, they used your home against you.
They call it magnetoreception.
Magnets make it better.
They called you a man, and it made it okay.
You lost your leg, eye, and chest,
And then they stuffed you.
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;
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
The first time I heard the word “diaspora,” it fit perfectly into my mind's holding place for funny words. Diaspora. I would try it on like a cloak-and-veil, whisper it under my breath, and brush it through my dark eyebrows. I’d write it down in cursive; Google it incessantly every time I forgot its perfect definition.
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.
I dream that a dinosaur walks
into a museum and doesn’t know
it’s him in the middle of the display.
As I tell him, his razortooth-lined jaw
drops in dismay. It’s a mistake,
he roars, a jewel tear rolling
down his face. I take his stubby claw