“Flying Housewife” by Julia on the 4

Saturday April 28, 2018
10:58pm
5 minutes
www.independent.co.uk

She has wings

Her hands know how to flutter at the end of her arms
Watch how she keeps herself up
Watch how she treads the deepest air

She is getting things done

Busy busy flying throughout the house before her wife comes home because her wife is the only one who leave the house little bird stays inside floats in the living room
Above the coffee table hovering along the shelves lined with baby photographs she is cleaning up the disagreements the mirrors collecting dust in all the ghosts of her lipstick affirmations she is keeping things tidy for when her wife comes home because she doesn’t leave so what excuse does she have not to have the house clean for when she arrives

She moves quickly to avoid getting stuck

She keeps her wings flapping
So she will be ready to use them

“As a last word” by Sasha on her couch


Sunday, April 7, 2013
9:26pm
5 minutes
How to Shoot a Movie Story
Arthur L. Gaskill and David A. Englander


I dreamt in Spanish, finally. I’ve been waiting for it to happen, wondering, wishing, for years. Since 2002, April, when the cherry blossoms filled the park. It doesn’t matter that that was the year we met, it’s simply irrelevant. I’d taken a bath before bed, a hot one, and I’d laid there until I was prune-y and half asleep. I’d drunk half a bottle of wine, cheap, given to me as a gift. “Never buy yourself wine, chocolate, cigarettes or marijuana,” my mother frequently told me. “But use each, in moderation,” she would wink. You’d taught me how to count in Spanish before we went to Seville. I didn’t want to have to rely on you to pay for things (even though it was my money) or negotiate. I was better at both. I would practise counting on my bike ride to work, while eating my lunch, making dinner. I didn’t like your hair short, the way you had it then, but I liked your clean-shaven face so… I was trying to be less picky. I learned more as we travelled through Spain, as we stayed with your aunts and uncles and second-cousins. “I want my last words to be this language,” I’d said, late one night, lying beside you, trying to only touch toes because it was so hot. “No, no…” You’d said, “Your last words should be in your mother tongue.” The beginning of the end, I suppose. The beginning of the beginning.