A neighbor assures me not to worry when the dog eats / rabbit flesh flattened on the street. Uncooked bones / are not sharp enough to hurt, turn an animal inside out.

The chicken crows at midnight. Crows at four o’clock in the morning. Crows when it rains. Crows when the sun sets. Crows when sirens blare down our street. Only stops crowing to eat.

This is the fantasy of self-sufficiency: healthy in a closed loop, without needing anything from anyone else.

Who would have thought he’d sit / so still so long, but he settles right / into our row, props his head on the velvet / armrest basking in the company

before their war, the Aqlla served / overflowing quinoa milk / to unworthy undeserving grins

Blood, unruly emotions, and intense relationships are at the heart of work by both the US author Chloe Caldwell and the Ecuadorian Gabriela Ponce.

1 A man found a door and hung it on the wall. I think he thought in rectangles, each day's bright panel pushed one against the next, a calendar of light.…

We have, all of us, predicted our deaths. By predicted I mean conjured or imagined, wished for or used as a weapon, a means of manipulation.

In their entry on love, Berlant writes that we tend to (mistakenly) use the objects our desire attaches to in order to assume an identity— “you know who…

For Berlant, part of the problem of politics is that marginalized people have to accommodate the feelings of their majority counterparts in order to successfully…