About the Longevity of Labelling Bell Jars by Mandira Pattnaik
I do understand the way my loving husband labels the bell jars, even though I can see through the glass what they are filled-with—salt, sugar, biscuits, and flour.
Bamboo Silk by Rosaleen Lynch
Pillow talk turns to silk; real or faux. In winter’s lowlight, smoke rises from the bedside ashtray, as the hotel window keeps the lunchtime city at bay.
Rodeo, My Way by Tess Kelly
I watched that cowboy through the fog of spray-on sunscreen, sunscreen that oughta be outlawed –up, down and sideways–the way it fucks with oceans, with air, with the sea turtles lolling on the Maui beach…
Beached by Rachel M. Hollis
“I’m a beached whale,” my mom says, tugging at her stomach in the mirror like she’s trying to peel it off.
Exit Wound by Bethany Bruno
The night the sirens came, my mother was labeling leftovers. She used blue painter’s tape and a black marker that bled through plastic.