The Moon Io // On Being an Angel

You are an insurgent in a dream, you haven’t died yet

but you know you will between coffees

in cups smiling into themselves creamy leers in

your hands and the slaps of light on the water above you, everything
lambent, clicking like a night of insects
that sets a dream orchard blinking.

How you age and break things. Io
makes an effort to communicate: her mouth, gnawing the air.
She releases a black glassy bile—Io in your dream—the hole
of her mouth cannot be filled—she heaves
and you cup your hands over her mouth,

spilling it back into her she is hungry what will fill

her again, you are in a dream,

look in the mirror

what are you seeing is it

you wake up look the dream

in its face that’s your mirror as though

you had been calling out in a dark night,

how your search party pictured you, what

machine makes a noise makes a party

change course. Io gurgles in estrus.
The moon, the horned

virgin. You are in a dream and you are losing little battles,
gone the arborous boulevards, the trees working

discreetly in the medium of air.

The gray matter eats itself the white matter

convexes like a pale stomach breaching from a chemical bath,

the pressure of its possible depths crushing someone like you—you are
of revolution, gurneys with their tendency to veer,

the bathrooms dysfunctional in unspecified ways,
clean but unusable, light-filled. You keep aging but you haven’t died yet
how should you know about an ending you’ll know an end
when you live the last of something, gone the paper
hats and the sobriquets. You look

in the mirror and an old friend dies.

Io wears a mask of your face, you look at her

and adjust. You pull angels

from the bathtub, from the chemical bath,

from Jenny Lake, fistfuls of duckweed. You are sick

of a purge that proves nothing, conclusions minus clues. The amygdala
curls inward like a fern.

You are losing. You are in a dream

foreseeing a spotlight on the ocean floor.

Viscous things like faith

loop through themselves, single cells, its nauseous.

Io is scarred such that to look at her

is to look through a scratched lens.

Craters spindle out, turn ashy at their hundred tails.

Her surface belies the watery expanse some believe exists
beneath. Everything for a while was strange.

You had just been procured,
dumped into time how were you supposed to know what was dangerous,

your lower lip comically large, your baby teeth

serrated at the tips, a feminine lack

of calcium. You evolved, you came

into focus into applause like the click of a plague.

How couldn’t you fear something with so many names—
a bull, a swan, a fist

of glitter sticky as pollen.

Io is sick of the open fields,

the open hands. Their eyes closed.

Your eyes closed,

maybe. You don’t remember, it’s hard to talk about. 

You remember baby teeth. In the dark
room you pull yourself from the tub, in the dark expanding
like the eyes of a slug, you imagine sea things

grow legs and lungs. The room its own cell.

Walk up to someone, anyone, say

This is my dream and I’m dreaming you; they just shrug.
Age and break things. We are made from little sparks. Io
autochthonic. How could you be safe
when you are verbose but sinister, shy. Io fatherless, farther.
Are you friends with planets? With anyone?
Are you tired? You’re the last
face of revolution. Gone everyone. Blood
spreads from holes darkly: a field of black eyed susans.

You walk slowly, squinting.

A moth beats itself against the blink of a smoke detector.

You are here. How you know that’s how it will

end because that’s how it began, the moon
spherical, virginalized, ancient and cold.
You have anodynes and a machine

that produces the sound of waves.
You are dreaming, I am wearing a mask.
I’m in a search party and in the distance I hear your voice.

and yeah, i still miss you

Early memories of sex and nudity



my parents are in the kitchen, fully clothed
dad pulls mum close and thrusts his crotch into hers
i’m rolling a toy car across the floor
i look away




i find a plastic bottle the size of a soy fish labelled LUBRICANT

my mum manages a brothel i call
‘the clinic for lonely men’
i’ve seen porno mags under her bed
/ my 7 year old brother standing in my room
with a bright pink boner

back at mum’s i tell her there were pubes on the bottle cap
i anxiously picture my dad masturbating

mum calls dad to tell him to be more careful
about these things

dad gets defensive
‘it’s from my electric razor kit’




me and my brother are in the doctor’s waiting room

after a while i knock on the doctor’s door
and he lets us in

all i can see is my mum’s bent legs poking out behind a curtain
the doctor hovers between them
while mum talks to us through the curtain

the doctor has dark skin and speaks bad english
he picks up a long silver object shaped like a gun
and vanishes behind the curtain

mum groans
the doctor speaks in a hushed voice
about not being able to find the cervix

‘what’s he doing?’ i say
‘he’s working on mum’ says my brother




dad bursts into my room at 3 am
naked on all fours
patting the floor
/ calling out for his dog ‘Dick’

i climb out of bed to turn on the light
the light startles him awake
he says ‘i’m sorry, i must’ve been sleepwalking’
i say ‘it’s ok’
and shut the door behind him as he leaves

i’m 10
i stop staying with him shortly after that




i’m laughing with my mum about my childhood
i take a sip of tea
and start choking on the tea

mum sits back, watching
after about ten seconds of me choking
she removes my macbook from my lap
and pushes me forward over my chair

i vomit onto a navy blue snuggie on the floor
there’s a puddle of vomit at my feet
with a chickpea in the centre

mum asks if it was our conversation that did it

The TV is playing car races and all i

The tv is playing car races and all I feel is a drill inside my skull

Thinktweet: does anyone else feel the same way?

That’s all we’re ever tweeting

I get synesthetic sometimes

The sink smells like bleach so much tonight

It’s blinding me but I have to drown my face

I just made this poem up how good am I

The anxiety of holding all the lines in while you’re doing X

Save my most brilliant ones for later

Like holding out on the climax or if theyre into that sort of thing, the One


Knew a friends friend who drank bleach and listened to senses fail

I did on the bus too but

Kind of wished I was balls enough

Gained a lot of weight since landing in point “b”

Not sure which bullet were on

Continue Reading →

A girl’s guide to adventuring

I never regret because
I’m never wrong; the roads diverged in a wood and
who went where why before is irrelevant
I got my axe and it’s into the thicket,
legs scratched up bloody & nothing but blueberries to eat for months
That’s just how it is:
I didn’t make the rules, and I don’t mind them
You have to start somewhere and I start with “no,”
so it’s heart-first into the forest
And if you come upon a wolf, you go by
And if you come upon an oracle, you go by
And if you come upon a cabin, doors-open, fires-lit, arms-welcoming, eternity up in your nostrils like homecoming and promises and good bread and wine,
you go by
because blueberries aren’t as bad as all that
and I’m never wrong, or lie.