Hell is Real
Chronically Ill
When the sun came up and the sky was green we sat on the front porch rocking chairs, My father’s coffee in his hands with steam cutting through November. No other Silence exists in my memory so prominently. It hangs in my throat like the wedding dress caught in the tallest sweetgum. I always wondered if the Bride found out Or if she ended up miles away, placed carefully between I-65 and the sign that reads “Hell Is Real.” Hell wasn’t on my mind back then. I was more worried about what was above, Wore my bike helmet with my sister when climbing through the neighborhood, A true act of caution and distrust for falling branches.
I didn’t notice my hair until I started losing it— no consent torn away down the drain.
HANNAH JONES
KENNYA SANTIAGO OLMOS
I still fear destruction. Even when I have seen the way we rebuild. I still fear the wind picking up. Even when I feel the roof still intact above me. I still dream I’m running through empty houses down streets I vaguely remember. Hiding from windows and stopping in front of mirrors. I wish the ground wasn’t so fucking wet So I could dig a basement with my fingernails.
Dr. X joked, “At least you can Amazon Prime wigs nowadays.” What a stupid joke. To be ripped off my scalp overnight and vanish through what I imagine is a slide into the Pacific Ocean. I wondered what a hairy fish would look like— Dr. Google said that a fish can appear hairy by a mold called Saprolegnia or “cotton-mold.” Funny how my burden can become a fish’s burden and how I could want to be a fish. What a stupid thought.
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FishHook
FishHook
