Issue #151
Spring 2022

I cried in public again. Drive,

I said to my beloved, drive. I can’t

have people watch me cry. It’s bad enough

watching people watch me touch fruit at

the grocery store. Prickly pear glaring

across the sweet heaps. It’s not my fault

the citrus is too soft. It’s not my fault

you blame me. But maybe no one

was watching me cry, or maybe they definitely

were, making me a meme. I was an Asian girl

eating a burger in the passenger seat, crying

into the foil wrapper. Snot or cheese sauce

or gelatinous exhaustion. Insert joke,

accent, fetish. A sends me a message:

isn’t it terrible to ask ‘how are you’

these days? Like nothing fucked up happened

today, so what, it’s a good day? How bone-true

this is—how something will happen tomorrow

and how something is happening right now, how

to push the fear of this happening to those

we love, and we are supposed to eat? I message

back: have you eaten yet? Please, eat. I

love you. I was trying to eat. Had soggy bun in

hand, then, the thing is/was/will be: rage and grief

and fear make a terrible meal. What kind of

nourishment leaves you this gray meat, gut

sick? I eat rage daily. It kissclogs its way

through my arteries, my brain, my lungs, my

pores, my mouth, my eyes, leaking like

a fish laid out to dry, flies coming in

for a little sip. When asked what

brings us relief these days, my graduate

student of color: “Sometimes, I just

scream as loud as I can. It feels good to

let it out.” I promise them I’ll try it.

Later, some white dude shares his meme

of me in a group chat or Reddit thread

somewhere: me love burger long time

LOLOLOLLOLOL im screaming