I Don’t Really Know Much About Rosh Hashanah Except That We Throw Bread at Ducks

“We need to do something for Rosh Hashanah,” said Hannah, hovering over me at my desk.

“Fuck, is that really this week?” I replied. I didn’t turn to face her, most of the conversation consisted of her speaking at me while I stared into my computer screen.

“Yeah, it is,” replied Hannah. “I thought you were Jewish.”

“I haven’t gone to temple in years.”

“Like, what even is Rosh Hashanah?” asked Hannah.

“It’s Jewish new year.”

“Is that the thing where they have the coke bottles with the yellow caps?”

“Dude, I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I ground my open palm into my right eye.

“You know, when the grocery stores have the two-liter coke bottles with the yellow caps. My husband is really into soda made with real sugar, he buys like ten bottles every time they come out with yellow cap coke.”

“Oh, I think that’s Passover,” I said.

“Jewish Easter!” replied Hannah. There was a pause and then Hannah continued, “But anyway, we really should have something for Rosh Hashanah. We want to make all of the new students feel welcome. This is the first year we’ve had move-in during a religious holiday.”

I was going to mention Ramadan but I let it go. “We could take the students to a lake and throw bread to the ducks.”

“What?” said Hannah.

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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

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