Translated from the Spanish by Nina Perrotta And here I go again talking about what I eat and don’t eat and how I eat the things I eat. About how what happened to my body failed to disturb the precise balance of my mind, even though it was, in fact, obvious: I had pica, and…
The moment the things of the dead enter our lives, they begin another history. I inherited three gay histories, the archives of three gay men in my life. Two were family friends I called uncles. Their archives were straightforward in their queerness as they’d lived out and proud. Yet once I had finished going through their things,…
/ˈnεtˌwәrk/ Goose bumps are a good sign. More and more often these days, I find my eyes falling on just the thing I was looking for in an area of apparent chaos. More and more often these days, I find myself encountering significant floral debris just at my feet. Some weeks ago, during my first…
I had some vague idea that I would one day write a book (maybe a comic picaresque memoir) about having cancer, but it also feels like maybe I don’t have time for that. With what rapidity life follows my pen, etc. —Text to friend, December 28, 2025 I am used to dealing with the dead….
Let me tell you first that I am not one of those weeping women from support group, the ones who offer you a tissue and rest their hand on your arm while telling you that they understand. On the first day I stood up and said, “You don’t understand me any more than I understand…
Kimberly sat outside at the coffee shop when Caleb Bless ran past, waving from across the street. Like everyone else, she had gorged on the headlines: Newly divorced Caleb Bless on Bourbon Street, intoxicated, giving lap dances to passersby; Caleb Bless brawling with patrons at a bar, at a hotel, at a park—brawling, even, outside…
The girl showed up in early March, the rainy season, a baby tucked under her arm like a picnic basket. Hanna, just finished mucking out the pig stalls, was checking the seedlings in the greenhouse. In the watery, indecisive light that passed for spring these days, the little shoots looked depressed and anorexic. Outside, the…
The first c is sharp; a rock scraped against pavement. The second c is as smooth as a stone washed over by waves. They look identical. Interchangeable. But they are as different as the crescent moon and the snake, slowly strangling its prey. Two syllables. The first means, to be able. To be permitted. As in, I think I can…
Annie Finch recommends Matriarchal Societies of the Past and the Rise of Patriarchy by Heide Goettner-Abendroth (Peter Lang, 2022). “This jaw-droppingly inspiring tome is THE book on matriarchy, by the mother of modern matriarchal studies.” Annie Finch recommends Collected Poems by Lenore Kandel (North Atlantic Books, 2012). “A lost gem of women’s poetry from the Beat era, Kandel’s work is deliciously erotic, and…
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