I forgot how to take off my shoes /
How do normal people /
Take off their shoes /

When will they regard the autonomy of a woman’s hard /
decision with the same religion of just looking up /
with the same faith and leaping to conclusions /
That they do to us?

A swarm of moths, not butterflies—not yellow sunny-sweet nerves, but a gray chill of disquiet—swarmed through her.

Success looks like crying at night /
when you’ve overcome the ticking /
of the clock, ever listing what it wants /

How do I tell you I no longer lift my hands /
Or grind my knees down to the guilt /

There, a small twinge in my armpit/
I’m sure it’s nothing bad /
It’s happened for the last three days /
I try not to think of that /

I crossed my arms over my book, the sidewalk cool against my thighs. The emerging summer evening shimmered with a morse code of fireflies, and the orange sunlight smelled like watermelon at the height of sweetness. A perfect bookend to the day if Ranas would just leave me alone.

I have encountered Conquest /
A herald seraphim /
A harbinger of sacred fervor /
Wrapped all up in righteous sins /

Let’s talk about science fictional concepts. Imagine a Utopian world where all creatives like writers get paid fairly for their labor. 

Lobsters don’t die from old age /
They just get tired of moulting and shouldering /
All the necessary sadness a being needs /
To move from shell to shell /

Cover your ears, child /
Hear only the trees now /

The sky rotated into a yellow-green, the kind where the sun strove to shine through. Cindy stayed out in the yard. Her son texted hide in the basement! A siren wailed through the empty street. But Cindy waited. 

Men also love scalp massages /
and trailed fingers in their hair /

The crimson leaf pile near the street drain /
Has a picture of reasons for you to skip down the walk /

A phantom muscle in my brain /
Works on weekends and overtime /
To convince me that I’m imminent /
Just that, imminent /

Fireflies, wandering eyes /
Blinking through the popular trees /

The cicada killers drone in the park /
Small rockets /
A display of gold in the sky /

Reda hunched in her chair in the bright, cheery restaurant, her mouth dry, clenching her fists. A bear might as well have been lumbering towards her, the way her chest flip-flopped with nerves. She had no excuse. 

These geese, man, they hunt /

In feral packs, snakes stacked /

On top of chicken breasts /

“Haikus wrap themselves /
around Mona Lisa’s smile”