May 04, 2020

My love language is making dalgona coffee at 4 am while the Earth breaks us apart
And picks and chooses how it wants to envelop us
you’re dancing to that Doja Cat Tik Tok, your arms, your legs, the rest of you, an afterthought
My words slip from me, cold, syrupy instant coffee
We’ve stayed up like this every night,
The blue light of your screens painting the back of eyelids mauve, with exhaustion
I thought the end of the world would smell like fire and brimstone, cinders and burning-
My breath is stolen from me all the same
my sigh so heavy it could knock the whole world down in one breath


Bushra is just queer, 24, and existing; on a quiet day, you can hear the world breathing. 

May 15, 2020

someone holds open a palm
to reveal scattered change. heart lines
diverge, a pursuit of future.

a man is waiting beyond a wall.
face guarded, hands bent back
under plastic,
bright blue. milk is burning.

there is limited
potential in tilting
pitcher across a
bed of espresso

breaking surface tension
by means of flower, or
a heart pulling open.


Rachel Small writes outside of Ottawa, obsessed with Shirley Jackson. 

May 26, 2020

i was fifteen when i first wrote it. it kept looping back the way songs do.
you know, i don’t remember why anymore. i always just figured i would. [laughs]
i’m not online, but i dream about faces. i tried hearing mammals for years.
after janet, the pond had a bottom. this was a bedroom, and pink.
right now? the shallots from march. the metal is still too warm.
i’m gonna sing for a child one day. just not with this body, you know?


emilie kneifel is a good man in a storm.