For Foyle, when they say they contact you directly if you're a winner, does that mean via phone or via email (esp. if you live in the U.S.)? thought you might know because ive seen your name on the past winners list :)
They email you, and they also send you a packet in the mail. G’luck!
“Wishing I were bigger than these moments,
smothered in hands, passing through my old bodies,
shedding a luscious fur that drips from my shoulders
like a whore in a girlie magazine, wishing I were greater
than desire, so over its poesy whatever, wishing you hadn’t
left me in June, wishing you were here, kissing me goodbye
in the porch light. It’s a sweet montage, we’re laughing ugly
and smiling at each other,the night expanding like a lung.
So we drive with all the windows down,
grinning into the blue, legs crossed, not both of them mine,
the car sliding down the road like a streaming blotch
on a reel of film. Lying on Sol’s couch, soft and molted,
palming my phone, your phantom weight on my stomach,
trying to send this, hoping at the very least to startle you into love,
not love with me, but love as a verb,
hoping you’ll see the bullshit in that sentence,
regretting this already.”—TEXTS FROM LAST NIGHT, by Gabriella Gonzales, Winter Tangerine Review, Volume Three (via wildflowerveins)
I’m about 90% sure the economy is never gonna “improve”
this is capitalism in it’s final form
this is it honey
except, you know, those companies that do a charitable thing for every thing they sell
that’s kinda new and interesting. benevolent capitalism
Pay attention, class: This is what it looks like when one is unwilling to consider new information.
It’s not new information, though. It’s misinformation.
First, it’s not that new.
Did you know that there was a time in U.S. history—which is by definition recent history—when a corporation was generally intended to have some sort of public interest that they served? I mean, that’s the whole point of allowing corporations to form. Corporations are recognized by the commonwealth or state, and this recognition is not a right but a privilege, in exchange for which the state (representing the people) is allowed to ask, “So what does this do for everyone else?”
The way the economy is now is a direct result of a shift away from this thinking and to one where a corporation is an entity unto itself whose first, last, and only concern is an ever-increasing stream of profits. What you’re calling “benevolent capitalism” isn’t benevolent at all. It’s a pure profit/loss calculation designed to distract from—not even paper over or stick a band-aid on—the problems capitalism creates. And the fact that you’re here championing it as “benevolent capitalism” is a sign of how ell it’s working.
Let’s take Toms, as one example. The shoe that’s a cause. Buy a pair of trendy shoes, and a pair of trendy shoes will be given away to someone somewhere in the world who can’t afford them.
That’s not genuine benevolence. That’s selling you, the consumer, on the idea that you can be benevolent by buying shoes, that the act of purchasing these shoes is an act of charity. The reality is that their model is an inefficient means of addressing the problems on the ground that shoelessness represents, and severely disrupts the local economies of the locations selected for benevolence.
(Imagine what it does to the local shoemakers, for instance.)
The supposed act of charity is just a value add to convince you to spend your money on these shoes instead of some other shoes. It’s no different than putting a prize in a box of cereal.
Heck, you want to see how malevolent this is?
Go ask a multinational corporation that makes shoes or other garments to double the wages of their workers. They’ll tell you they can’t afford it, that it’s not possible, that consumers won’t stand for it, that you’ll drive them out of business and then no one will have wages.
But the fact that a company can give away one item for every item sold shows you what a lie this is. A one-for-one giving model represents double the cost of labor and materials for each unit that is sold for revenue. Doubling wages would only double the labor.
So why are companies willing to give their products away (and throw them away, destroy unused industry with bleach and razors to render them unsalvageable, et cetera) but they’re not willing to pay their workers more?
Because capitalism is the opposite of benevolence.
"Charity" is by definition exemplary, above and beyond, extraordinary, extra. "Charity" is not something that people are entitled to. You give people a shirt or shoes or some food and call it charity, and you’re setting up an expectation that you can and will control the stream of largesse in the future, and anything and everything you give should be considered a boon from on high.
On the other hand, once you start paying your workers a higher wage, you’re creating an expectation. You’re admitting that their labor is more valuable to you than you were previously willing to admit, and it’s hard to walk that back.
Plus, when people have enough money for their basic needs, they’re smarter and stronger and warier and more comfortable with pushing back instead of being steamrolled over. They have time and money to pursue education. They can save money up and maybe move away. They can escape from the system that depends on a steady flow of forced or near-forced labor.
So companies will do charitable “buy one, give one” and marketing “buy one, get one” even though these things by definition double the overhead per unit, but they won’t do anything that makes a lasting difference in the standard of living for the people.
Capitalism has redefined the world so that the baseline of ethics is “How much money can we make?” and every little good deed over and above that is saintly.
But there’s nothing benevolent about throwing a scrap of bread to someone who’s starving in a ditch because you ran them out of their home in the first place.
American Apparel also is pretty fucking exploitative of their models (the women, of course). A friend of mine told me that their sister modeled for the company and that she was told to masturbate during the shoot because they wanted some sexualized look on her face since that is SO relevant to clothing, and she was extremely uncomfortable with it and felt coerced (she also needed the money). A lot of the stuff their models experience is not consensual or voluntary, only oppressive and abusive.
yuck yuck yuck that is so disgusting and horrible
like ur a clothing company yet none of ur female models seem to be wearing clothes ever
probably my least favorite clothing company. so dirty, so exploitative, so yucky. plus they expensive as hell. you try to buy a tank top and it’s like $67.99.
american apparel advertisments are soft-core porn and no one can tell me otherwise it’s gross af. why all ya female models literally naked and ya male models covered up like the great blizzard of 1949 is comin back for round 2. why are you showing me a girl’s literal butt while trying to sell a skirt. like.
Your writing is absolutely incredible. Do you have any favourite poets who's work I should read? I only started writing poetry a couple of months ago (I transitioned from prose) and I feel like I'm going through a dry spell of reading-- I'm not sure who to read next. Thanks so much, and keep up the amazing work!!!
thank you thank you thank you
hmm i don’t really read specific poets, i read literary journals, so i’ll give you a list of online journals that i love and that i think you should check out (for some reason most of my faves are all caps??? idk y)
B O D Y (new fave omg)
PANK (old fave omg)
SOFTBLOW (some of their stuff is not my cup of tea but for the most part they’re killer)
ILK (love love love)
DIAGRAM (mostly their prose, their poetry is not rly my style)
The Collagist (fave fave fave magazine for prose)
Hobart (some of their stuff is soooo trippy but in a good way. i like them loads and loads)
BIRDFEAST (so so so good)
read them!!! they’re all v v good journals who have v v good work. :]
Winter Tangerine Review is easily my favorite thing in the world. Besides my mom. And brother. And chocolate croissants. And air conditioning in August. Well, one of my favorite things. We’ve had so many ups and downs in the past year and a half (woah, my baby is almost a toddler!) and it’s been such a pleasure going through all your work. Really. Thank you so much for believing in WTR’s mission, and in our staff, and in me. WTR went from an idea to an actual journal with a staff and a submissions platform and a website in about two weeks, and that is all because of those who have backed us from the very start, and we appreciate you so much more than you know.
As some of you may know, I’m doing a two-year gap program in South Africa starting in a few weeks (woah!) and this, among many other reasons, is why we have decided to temporarily go out of print. WTR was founded on four bases, one of which would be that we would try our very, very best to keep print alive, however we can. And we have not given up this dream. In the next year, we plan on (finally!) bring the Winter Tangerine awards to life, a blindly-read competition that will recognize the most electric poetry, prose and visual art, and will not only give a cash prize, but will also provide winners and finalists with mentors in their genre. We also plan on holding a print chapbook competition in early 2015 (more information on this soon!)! But what about the journal itself, you ask? We’re moving online, but not in a traditional sense - we’ll continue making manuscripts of WTR, but we’ll publish them as eBooks, available for purchase exclusively on our website. When we move back to print, we’ll continue publishing volumes online as well, so that those who live outside of the USA can experience WTR without breaking the bank for shipping.
As seen with WTR’s newest online feature, IMAGINARY HOMELANDS, guest-edited by the lovely Rosebud Ben-Oni (which is still accepting submissions so get to it, poets!), WTR will also move to publish an online feature once every four months that will range from the process of drafting to translations to poems about the color red. We are also going to hold a year-long open call for proposals, so anyone can curate a feature of work about what is important to them.
We are also opening submissions for our Short Film category and our Dramatic Writing category on September 1st. In the future, we do plan on putting on the Dramatic Writing submissions with actors and sets and a director’s chair in NYC, and our Short Films wil be played at the WTR Readings, Art Exhibitions, and Films Screenings. Speaking of…
What about the WTR readings?! Those are so fun! And great! And there’s hummus and guacamole! Don’t fret, loves. Those will continue to go on, thanks to the WTR NYC team!
So the fact that we’re taking a short break from print is really just dwarfed by all the other cool stuff we have going on, anyway. (Volume Three and Four will be our first eBook volumes! Ayyyyy! Go, the internet!). We’re really excited for the next couple months.
Get ready, folks! Keep writing and painting and sculpting and filming! We can’t wait for this fire to spark.
“Poem for boy with all his baby teeth in a ring box under his bed. Poem for boy with bee stingers in his palm, for broken neck birds, too many pink scars on his shoulders. Poem for boy nailing our scarecrow to the tree out back. Poem for boy, bloodless hands, dead father, weighed down branches, steady. Poem for riverbank eulogy, poem for the house on fire, for the empty bedrooms, for the baby teeth, for his scratched out face, for the wheat I pulled to make that scarecrow whole. Poem for boy, for husk, for knotted rope, and a white bird, all quiet, all burned.”—Yasmin Belkhyr, Clawfoot
“Fifty yards away and you can still hear
someone’s world seem to twist in their shaky hands.
I didn’t realize how it sounded until after
you called the therapist. There’s a clinical term,
it feels more like the signs across your chest
read WELCOME TO, WELCOME TO,
never WELCOME HOME, never WELCOME
HOME. You tell me you don’t understand.
Divide. Separate. Consume. I am to the top,
shaking full of light. Swallow. Moonrock skull,
fingers like coffee filters, tongue swimming
with Tylenol, clear. I go weeks just letting the phone
ring, burying the bottles like translucent
orange explosives. Rise. Wash clean.
Stomach acid full of hornets, the finite of the body
above the resolve of concrete. Every word
sounds like a death threat. Open. Close. I pen out
letters to my insides but can’t speak
the language that hisses and spits. Boil. Simmer.
Burn. From far enough away, no one
can see the tremors in your throat. You ask me
how this feels. I could show you,
but the mind is a prism. It hurts invisibly.
Iron. Align. Refract. You do not understand
why my eyes well up on certain sidewalks, why
my skin crawls at my own name. Control.
Perform. Conclude. You ask me how to see
my kind of sick, but I cannot show you a suffering
that always runs clear.”—PRISM by Julia Faulkner, Winter Tangerine Review, Volume Three (via wildflowerveins)
“Last night was that dream
again: me and Jesus
pulling nails out of our feet
at the lip of the Mississippi
Delta. Somewhere, Coretta
is calling for Martin
to come down from a sycamore.
He’s just a boy, here, but
he weeps and the sky
is ripped at the belly.”—Sasha Banks, “Sasha Fells the Wildwood,” published in B O D Y (via bostonpoetryslam)
Poem for boy with all his baby teeth in a ring box under his bed. Poem for boy with bee stingers in his palm, for broken neck birds, too many pink scars on his shoulders. Poem for boy nailing our scarecrow to the tree out back. Poem for boy, bloodless hands, dead father, weighed down branches, steady. Poem for riverbank eulogy, poem for the house on fire, for the empty bedrooms, for the baby teeth, for his scratched out face, for the wheat I pulled to make that scarecrow whole. Poem for boy, for husk, for knotted rope, and a white bird, all quiet, all burned.
“God called me Fish Heart. Lily Mouth. I was an evening sort of girl. He liked me better ripped up, bar bathrooms, bar peanuts, skip the small talk. We’re both Adam. We’re both Eve. In the mornings, swallowing bait, swallowing nails, pulling apart the microwave, two forks and an empty socket. Baby, there is always a limit. Hours spent rubbing my belly, waiting for watermelon trees, or orange bushes, or flowers heavy with green apples. And now, this is what I can dissect: his fingers in the gut of the fish, his fingers in the core of the flower, always pulling. Like it wasn’t enough to feel, like He had to see, to know.”—Yasmin Belkhyr, Opal (via wildflowerveins)
God called me Fish Heart. Lily Mouth. I was an evening sort of girl. He liked me better ripped up, bar bathrooms, bar peanuts, skip the small talk. We’re both Adam. We’re both Eve. In the mornings, swallowing bait, swallowing nails, pulling apart the microwave, two forks and an empty socket. Baby, there is always a limit. Hours spent rubbing my belly, waiting for watermelon trees, or orange bushes, or flowers heavy with green apples. And now, this is what I can dissect: his fingers in the gut of the fish, his fingers in the core of the flower, always pulling. Like it wasn’t enough to feel, like He had to see, to know.
SO WEIRD i literally just watched half the yellow sun with a bunch of african undergrads lmao
i def will be checking out her stuff! i haven’t really had the time to read lately (and by lately, i mean for the past like 6 months) but hopefully, i’l be able to make time before i leave for south africa
the US is unreal like girls cant wear shorts to school, you can literally lose your job for being gay, and unarmed black children are brutally murdered on the regular but old white ppl r still like “what a beautiful country. i can freely carry a gun for no reason and some of our mountains look like presidents. god bless”
Alright, i’m gonna sit down and basically explain the situation in this ask so everyone of my followers knows why i’m so pissed.
Michael Brown, a 17 - 18 year old african american boy was unlawfully shot (8-10 times supposedly) by police in St Louis, Missouri on saturday, august 9th, 2014. He was unarmed, and had done nothing to attract suspicion other than the fact that he was black. His body was left in the street for 4 hours. (beware: somewhat graphic image linked)
There are several claims from witnesses (see: Dorian Johnson’s account and video [HIGHLY RECOMMEND READING UP ON HIS ACCOUNT, ITS VERY SPECIFIC] — Brown’s friend who experienced the situation first hand, La’Toya Cash and Phillip Walker— Ferguson residents nearby the incident), that fall together in generally close claims. However, the only one who’s claim seems out of place is the police officer’s who shot Brown. Who, by the way, is put off on paid administrative leave AND who’s name remained under anonymity for his safety (However, attorney Benjamin Crump is looking for a way to force release his name). He claims that Brown began to wrestle the officer for his gun and tried attacking him after he told Brown and his friend Dorian Johnson (22) to “get the f*ck on the sidewalk”.
According to Johnson, after a minor confrontation on the officer’s part where he grabbed Brown by the neck and then by the shirt, the officer pulled his gun on Brown and shot him at point blank range on the right side of his body. Brown and Johnson were able to get away briefly and started running. However, Brown was shot in the back, supposedly disabling him from getting very far. He turned around with his arms in the air and said “I don’t have a gun, stop shooting!” By this point, Brown and the officer were face to face as the cop shot him several times in the face and chest until he was finally dead. Johnson ran to his apartment and by the sound of his account, seemingly had some sort of panic attack. Later he emerged from his home to see Brown still laying in the streets. People were gathered with their cellphones, screaming at the police.
Numerous rumors are sweeping around such as Brown stealing candy from a QuickTrip, the store he emerged from calling the cops on him, Brown reaching for a gun, Brown attacking the cop first, ect. But these have all been debunked. (I know a lot of these have been debunked, but im having a hard time finding sources. if anyone could help out and link some legit ones id be SO grateful)
The event in and of itself was terrible, but now it has escalated beyond belief. Around 100 or more people, mostly black, went to the police station to protest peacefully. Things quickly turned bad as martial law got involved and authorities were bringing in K9s, tanks, heavy artillery, ect. The heavy police presence only made things worse as riots began to break out and looting and vandalism started. [ x ] [ x ] [ x ]
Now, as of very recently, the media has been banned from Ferguson. There is also a No-Fly zone above Ferguson for the reason of “ TO PROVIDE A SAFE ENVIRONMENT FOR LAW ENFORCEMENT ACTIVITIES ” as said on the Federal Aviation Commission’s website. Cop cars are lined up on the borders to prevent people from entering/leaving. Media outlets are being threatened with arrest. It completely violates our amendments and everything.
It’s becoming increasingly scary and difficult to find out whats going on over there. I’m afraid this is all the information I have, though. If anybody else knows anything about the situation, please feel free to add on or correct any mistakes i’ve made as i’m no expert on writing these things.
And as a personal favor, i’d really appreciate anyone to give this a reblog in order to spread the word. I think it’s a shame that this is going on in our own country yet so few people know about it. Help me make this topic huge and get this as much attention as possible.
there’s just so much bad in the world it’s just so hard to be able to eat my breakfast and read a book and enjoy nice weather and not think about all the wrongs that are going on, all the blind eyes, all the slicked mouths, all the shut ears.
Huck kisses Angie in orange light on an empty road and no one sees.
Angie tells Huck things like in my dreams a bird cut through the telephone wires and that oak tree fell into our living room i want to hold up a gas station not for the money but for all the popsicle stick lights and Huck knows she means i love you.
The first time Angie trips, she is eighteen years old with Tom and Jimmy by the swamp waters and Ton is wasted and flirty and keeps touching her thigh, kneading it through her jeans.
"Tom, baby, make me clumsy"
Angie is skinny and pretty with deep dimples and eyes that never open all the way.
Huck wants her the second he sees hers. -
"What would you do if I left?"
"Where would you go?"
"Maybe the river a couple miles east."
"Wait for you to come back."
Huck’s not a bad guy really, he just isn’t sure he exists sometimes.
He sets the oak tree in fire. Makes a mark. Kisses Angie.
“Poem for syrup dreams, brush fire smoke, the forest gutted, two miles westward. Poem for pink tongues and the broken headboard and how you slept in jeans nights we got home late and scared, our knuckles bruised, noses bleeding. Poem for glasses off, blind. Poem for cups of sugar on the front porch, salt in our bed. poem for empty fridge, empty pockets, all the vases broken, flowers peeking through. Poem for empty bowls of porridge, this house too big for the both of us. Poem for my name, rebirth, and how you look at me in the dark, our silhouettes the lightest parts of us.”—Yasmin Belkhyr, Gold (via wildflowerveins)
hello! I'm sure you get a lot of asks but I needed to reach out to you. I admire and respect your writing even more than I enjoy it, and I need to ask you how you started taking steps to getting published. To be honest, I'm terrified, constantly wondering if I have the ability to reach people with honesty. I don't know how to take the first step. Any advice? Take your time. I love your work beyond anything I've seen from people my age. Thank you for sharing it with the world.
(wait i’m gonna publish this bcus i get this question a lot)
thank you so so much!! hm, so i guess i just dove right in. i just started submitting places and getting tons and tons and tons of rejections and being not okay with the rejections but dealing with it and growing and getting better. tumblr really made me the writer i am. without the support i got from tumbr, i might not even write poetry, i might’ve just stuck with crappy short stories and half baked novels and grown up and become a real estate agent or banker or something and just been really dissatisfied with my life. so ty tumblr xoxo
first step i think is to find journals you like. and i don’t mean journals you want to get into bcus they’re prestigious or whatever, but just journals you like to read and you enjoy most of what they publish and look forward to their new issues. and submit there. and maybe get rejected, and maybe get in. but keep trying regardless. it sucks so much, that first rejection. it’s like the crappiest feeling, like wow okay i spent so much time pouring myself into this piece and you literally decline me like what the fuck man??? but you take that shitty feeling and you keep writing and you somewhat hate the place that first rejected you (burnside review 4 me) but you forget about it (and three years later go through submittable searching for 20 min to find out their name bcus u literally can’t remember) and keep writing.
i think it’s also super important to realize how little your writing will matter. like that’s a huge hurdle to get over. there are like 9 billion people on that planet. if you get published in the new yorker which is arguably the most prestigious literary magazine in the world, there’s still only gonna be like 100k people reading your piece. that’s nothing compared to 9 billion. get over your writing and yourself (not u specifically im saying generally that came out so mean) and write bcus of what it does for you and not what it does for other people. bcus if you spend moments of your life doing shit for people who probably don’t care one way or the other, you’re just wasting time.
also, i’m still like a kid, but from what i know of the literary world, it’s just so messy and competitive and gross and horrible. it makes people feel so so so bad about themselves. you like never get paid and when you do it’s like two pennies and an old lollipop. there are so many people who are better than you and so many places that you want to get into and you literally hate your third person biography bcus it doesn’t have this journal or that award or blah blah blah. so please remember, submit to places bcus you love the places and you love your work and you love to write. don’t submit so you can make a career or get into a prestigious journal or have a better bio. that’s so lame. i do it all the time and it’s literally so lame. like why write if it’s only so that i can publish my stuff on some wordpress literary magazine for like a month and have like ten people read it?? i try to write for myself more than for anything else, and sometimes it is so scary seeing my friends do better than me and win awards and get into places but it’s important to not get overwhelmed and not feel like you’re drowning. if you ever feel like you need to “catch up”, take a break and reevaluate what you’re catching up to.
anyway sorry this is so long and rambly and i’m not even totally sure if i answered your question right tbh lmao.
abridged: submit to places you like. cry over your first rejection and then move on. write because you want to. try and try and try and try. don’t drown, babycakes.
Do you ever feel like you'll never be as good as other writers and you're wasting your time trying? I do sometimes, and I don't know if I should try to work through it or just give up. I know writing should be for yourself, but I want it to reach people too.
Definitely! All the time! Basically always! But I still work through it because I love writing and regardless of whether I get 2 notes or 2 thousand notes, there’s really something to be said about looking at a poem or a piece of prose that’s completely done and titled and thinking shit man i wrote that
A poem for when I see you in the passenger side window and don’t stop. A poem for summer, lush and salt, and I break dishes in bathroom stalls to stop my hands from shaking.
My car has no brakes and in dreams, I crack the ribs of deer over and over. Walking on eggs dyed blue and green like Vietnam dusk. A palm open to the sky. A dirty towel on my chest, eyes ravens and wood wide.
Hunger deep like September grass and my thighs and my fists. When I blink, I find trailer park dreams: a face that’s no longer my own, a love that has grown beyond me. Butter knives. Wet petals beneath my tongue. Too far gone out to sea to ever come back.
Knotting my thousand tongue words in a way that drowns summer, gives my hands purpose, gives me something to think about other than television static and paint stains. Voice like a sutured wound, and still, I go to playgrounds and give sigh-eyed boys finch kisses by the swing set.
A bathroom stall, white mouthed girls heaving.
A bathroom stall, and you aren’t touching me anymore.
poem for syrup dreams, brush fire smoke, the forest gutted, two miles westward. poem for pink tongues and the broken headboard and how you slept in jeans nights we got home late and scared, our knuckles bruised, noses bleeding. poem for glasses off, blind. poem for cups of sugar on the front porch, salt in our bed. poem for empty fridge, empty pockets, all the vases broken, flowers peeking through. empty bowls of porridge, this house too big for the both of us. poem for my name, rebirth, and how you look at me in the dark, our silhouettes the lightest parts of us.
sunday afternoons at the theater, passing bags of pills like licorice sticks, kissing roach faced ushers and watching the moon lay her thigh, her palm across the man in the back seat. i told him to stop bitching, just enjoy crescent while she lasts, and he opened his mouth, let a hundred thousand moths fly out, i said god dammit, and maybe two vultures, maybe a dove. i said wait, he blinked. i said lung or liver or kidney stone, he licked the side of my face, pushed crescent to the floor. now, twelve trailers, a reprise.
“Fox and Marie in the pizza parlor two towns over, loose change, an upturned table, pointed guns, steady. The boy at the counter is the cute one Fox used to hit on years ago, when she was bubblegum and belly rings. Earlier, Fox french braided Angie’s hair, fried tostodas in corn oil, kissed Olive on the cheek. Now, Marie’s face is a black scarf, her voice rust. She came in every day for a week, knew they left the back entrance open, knew they had insurance, knew which day they emptied the safe, knew what time they closed. The boy’s hands are shaking as he pulls hundreds from the bottom of the register. Fox wants to grab a slice of pizza, but Marie wouldn’t like it. it’s too cocky, too cruel, she’d say on the car ride back, eyes tired, rent money in the backseat. Fox looks at the boy, and points her gun at his face as she and Marie back away. He might almost recognize her.”—Yasmin Belkhyr, Maybe River, Maybe Rain
Okay, so a question for you... I'm always on the lookout for new books to read, however I struggle to find good recommendations for contemporary poetry. I mostly read lit mags and discover poetry that way but I would love to know if you have any poetry book recommendations! Thank you :)
i’m reading “highway or belief” by j. scott brownlee right now and it’s just so so so so so good. he’s such a talented writer and such a cool guy, i really recommend getting it. it’s out from button poetry and available here
“In the mornings, mouthing prayers,
picking up the pants and collared shirts
of boys who won’t stay. Boys who will
drink my coffee, shower quickly, kiss
me lightly, and leave the wrong phone
number on a scrap of paper in the kitchen.
They’ll be off by a number or two, guilt
like a brick in their stomachs. They’ll take
the stairs, recycle, put a dollar in a homeless
man’s cup. Later, I’ll take cabs to made-up
addresses, cut my palm in the backseat,
bleed on fake leather. When they find
my number in their pants pockets, they’ll
crumple the paper, turn on the news.”—Yasmin Belkhyr, Sacrifice