georgia says you're never coming back
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.
1 week ago | 271 notes

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.

1 week ago | 1,879 notes
Gold

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.

1 week ago | 271 notes
wintertangerinereview:

Winter Tangerine Review has teamed up with poet Rosebud Ben-Oni for an online feature that explores what home really is. We are drawn to the idea of origins- be it ethnic, religious, sexual, etc- existing in new geographies but longing for, challenging and speaking to homelands, however distant.  
We hope for slow, white-mouthed nostalgia, for the pull of Oceania, for the splintered weed fairy tales of the forest. Give us your forgotten, your remembered, your baked bread, your french braids, the broken glass on your city street. We want your comfortable, your uncomfortable, the place, mood, state of mind that you call home.
We want to explore the complexity of voices inhabiting spaces which challenge stability and certainty. There are all sort of homelands, and they are all not necessarily physical.
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Submit up to four poems through our Submittable here by August 31st. We look forward to your work!

wintertangerinereview:

Winter Tangerine Review has teamed up with poet Rosebud Ben-Oni for an online feature that explores what home really is. We are drawn to the idea of origins- be it ethnic, religious, sexual, etc- existing in new geographies but longing for, challenging and speaking to homelands, however distant.

 

We hope for slow, white-mouthed nostalgia, for the pull of Oceania, for the splintered weed fairy tales of the forest. Give us your forgotten, your remembered, your baked bread, your french braids, the broken glass on your city street. We want your comfortable, your uncomfortable, the place, mood, state of mind that you call home.

We want to explore the complexity of voices inhabiting spaces which challenge stability and certainty. There are all sort of homelands, and they are all not necessarily physical.

-

Submit up to four poems through our Submittable here by August 31st. We look forward to your work!

2 weeks ago | 87 notes
Anonymous: can i email you some of my writing so you can give me thoughts/critique? :) I would love another persons opinion and dont really want to share it

yea sure!! it’ll take me forever tho i’ve got a hella lot going on rn. yasmin@wintertangerine.com <—— email me!

2 weeks ago | 3 notes
Anonymous: I love the Homelands feature! That's such a cool idea!

Thank you! I really liked Rosebud’s original proposal and it was really cool forming what became Homelands. :]

2 weeks ago
practice backflips, tragic actress

jesus called he said he’s sick / of the distance

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. 

2 weeks ago | 37 notes
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.
2 weeks ago | 50 notes
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