“the authors of our lives” by Sasha at her desk


Monday October 10, 2016
4:44pm
5 minutes
The Rising Strong Manifesto
Brene Brown


I’m sorry for my chin hairs – – –
my legs \\ my armpits \/
my belly >
“my” is pejorative
none of these parts are mine
TRUMP CARD
I laugh because the cry is too big for my one bedroom apartment

I’m sorry for the unpalatable opinions
on the table between us
swirling squash and shit and sex and
squash

My dreams of motherhood don’t betray my dreams
of taking over the world
with stories of chin hairs
legs armpits bellies

Shred the TRUMP cards and recycle them
Maybe they will end up
paper that you’ll write me a letter on

“Looking at those thin winter trees” by Sasha on her couch


Sunday February 23, 2014
3:28pm
5 minutes
Cairo Blues
Leif Vollebekk


If I opened my kitchen cupboards, I’d feel exposed, I’d feel excited, I’d feel giggly and sweaty-palmed. You’d see smoked paprika and pink sea salt first, truffle salt second, alongside pumpkin seeds and peppercorns. The small, red sesame grinder rests nearby, no doubt a small pile of ground seeds under her bottom. Behind that is a can of chickpeas, a can of kidney beans, a small can of tomato paste. A jar of popcorn kernels, nearly forgotten because I’ve forbidden Sam from burning another one of my favourite pots. Powdered kale, made by my mother, a small jar of her famous corn relish, corn shucked by me, small husk dolls made by Sam. On the second shelf are the oils and vinegars, the wet things that bring balance and provide lubrication in the roasting pan – Palestinian olive oil, organic balsamic, Umeboshi, grapeseed oil. Some people pride themselves on their shoes, or their books or their antiques. The things I hold dear rest on our tongues and go down our throats to our thankful bellies. The places I go, away from the thin winter trees, are carried on spoonfuls of coconut butter and sprinkles of cardamon.

“Smear out the last star.” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Wednesday, April 17, 2013
1:02am
5 minutes
Absences
Dom Moraes


You fill me with so many secrets that keep me from being able to actually think about whether or not, one day, we’ll move to Belize and have a fruit stand, as partners (not lovers), as best friends, as allies in this almost-apocalypse. Let’s forget about the time I yelled like a woman who’d lost her legs, and the time that I told you I hated you more than I’ve ever hated anyone ever. It’s a complicated thing, this, and that, too. Yeah. But… You take me the way I am. You don’t add cream or sugar. You take me still rusty, still dirty, still clumsy, still wondering. You fill my belly with secrets that haven’t ever breathed before. I’ve never met anyone who has the courage to do this. If you were a man, or a lesbian, I would be so desperately in love with you, I’d probably die, because my heart wouldn’t be able to sustain the kind of beating it would do in your heavenly presence. I love you like that. Even though you aren’t a man. Screw it. Let’s go to Belize. I don’t care that we can’t afford plane tickets. We’ll hitchhike, we’ll walk, we’ll double ride on that ridiculous folding bike you just bought.