okay

one hour

sixty minutes

that’s not a lot

not enough time to

rewatch my favorite movie

relisten to my favorite album

not enough time to

fly to baltimore

i guess i should call her huh

spend my last hour with someone

i actually love

but my mom wouldn’t like that

something about

“family comes first” i guess

i’m just bummed that it’s only an hour

a day, sure

i can cope with that

i would be able to fly to baltimore

and hug her one last time

and kiss her for the first time

i’d be able to listen to hawaii: part ii

and watch the princess bride

and ride a motorcycle

and get a tattoo

i’d bleach my hair

and dye it rainbow

and shave my head

just cause it’s my last day

and i’m getting cremated so whatever

oh, i’d make plans for my funeral,

making sure it’d be as dramatic

and non-boring

and athiest as possible

i’d visit my best friend’s cats one last time

and stroke their fur

and pull her into a hug

but for one hour?

sixty minutes?

i’ll just

call my girlfriend

eat some ramen

say goodbye

and i love you

After a lifetime of wonder and worry, it is apparent that death is not the end, but neither is it a beginning.

I frequent the old haunts, collecting dust among the cobwebs in the high corners, swaying with them in the breezes while she carries on.

She has changed. Gray has crept into once dyed, and highlighted hair, while the style has grown out. Quick, light meals have whittled away what was already a naturally small frame. She spends more time on the porch, less on the phone, more in the garden, less on the computer, more with my dog Roscoe, and less with her friends. She pauses in hallways as she moves from room to room, enchanted by outdated photos in outdated frames. She lies awake deep into the night, then rises before the dawn. The things she once teased me about she has become. She is contemplative, skeptical, aloof.

She and Roscoe are now fast friends. She even lets him into the bed at night, an abhoration just a short while back. He lays with his chin on her foot through the quiet nights and days, needing to keep her close. He was a good dog for me, and he is a good dog for her.

She is only happy when the girls come, but they do not come often. They do not like the changes. The changes in her. The changes in Roscoe. The changes in the house. The interminable silence.

They tell her the house is too big, that she can’t keep it up alone. They are right, but she will stay. She and it will fall apart together. Memories do not travel well and there are too many to pack, so she will stay, she tells them, and keep those memories company.

”But it is so sad here,” they say, “with Daddy’s things all around.”

But the things do not make her sad. They are her things, too.

Me? I am indifferent. Indifferent about the house. Indifferent about the things.

I am only eyes that hover here... watching her, and waiting.

He stepped on a land mine.

It blew off his leg.

He came home to nothing.

Had no choice, but to beg.

When he asked for recompense,

they politely deferred.

Now he counts his coins

on a park bench, unheard.

She carried her child

through rapists, cartels.

How could she know

they’d be locked in separate cells?

No pleading, no request

could deter her crying.

Now they send her back

to a land of the dying.

He called the police

when he heard shots fired.

But on their arrival,

a judgement transpired.

Before he could speak,

he was brought to the ground.

Now their knee is on his neck.

No pulse to be found.

“The state of being ignored;

not taken into consideration.”

Who demanded

we agree to this...

stipulation?

An icy expanse of concrete against your cheek. The grating drone of a staticky radio. Distant whispers in spanish, clipped.

You force your eyes open. There are bees in your head- no, not bees. Wasps and yellow jackets, zooming around and injecting their barbed stingers into your skull. You know that you drank too much, but you're not sure when.

You raise your head, sit up. Your body feels like it's moving through liquid.

There are three walls here. The fourth border is not solid, so it isn't one.

But you can't exactly walk out.

The fourth wall comes in intermittent stripes. Metal poles.

You're in a jail cell.

You don't know why, can't know. It must be hidden in the black space, the lack of memories. On the edges of the black space, you see yourself leaving the hotel room. The lovely, safe, hotel room.

If your memory is telling the truth, that was two days ago.

The guard is sitting on a stool, with sleepy eyes and a droopy mustache. You get to your feet, rattle the bars. The reamain upright, challenging you, mocking you.

A frog climbs out of your throat. "Why am I here?" You shake the bars more, fervently, but now in a struggle for attention.

His eyes meet yours, confused. Then a dull light bulb lights up behind his eyes, shatters.

" Asesinato."

He then returns to his daydreams, to his offhanded oblivion.

You have no idea what he said. Along with your memory, your spanish phrasebook is somewhere, tumbling into the unknown. You should have learned spanish before your trip. But instead you limped down here, knowing only english, on a crutch made of twigs.

You think of reasons you could be here, rely on your own twisted creativity. But nothing emerges. Those who commit crimes do it to fill holes in their lives. You have none. You don't need money. You have friends. Your hole had been filled a long time ago, with an extra shovelful of dirt on top.

You try again.

"I don't understand. What am I in here for?"

More annoyed, this time. "Asesinato."

Even repetition doesn't bring any meaning, doesn't bring it out of the dark. After a stilted pause, you speak a stock phrase, the only one you remember: "No hablo espanol."

He understands. He gets off the stool, and hurries down a hallway.

Your throat is filled with sand. The headache is still buzzing, and the buzzing has intensified. With anticipation.

He returns, with another man in tow. He is younger, with a sort of constant anxiety radiating off of him. Yet when he sees you, the anxiety melts off, replaced with disgust.

"What do you want to know?" he spits, lip curled.

"Why I'm here. I can't remember anything for the past two days. And all the guard kept telling me was 'asesinato'." Somehow, not even knowing the meaning, the word seems toxic on your tongue.

The man's eyes are on fire, stoked with anger. He acts as if he knows you. Despises you.

"Well, let me translate. 'Asesinato', my friend, means 'murder'."

I appear on the plane.

I punch Jeffrey Epstein in the nuts,

So hard.

I am forcibly detained.

But they forget to arrest me when they land

Because they have bigger things to worry about.

Fin.

Crawled over the floor of the prison cell,

sweat pearls ricochet off the floor.

No date, no time, I lost my mind,

after forty-eight hours with tequila and wine.

Dear prison guard, what happened last night?

Did I go to far on the poker table in the end?

The drugs my friend, I pushed deep down my throat,

as the party kept on going until the sunrise I felt.

Guns and girls in the middle of the room,

my memories turn alive,

as if it still was last night,

where I was still confident and fine.

I look down my hand, a dry-blooded wound,

two fingers lost, and scar above.

I panic, I scream, the guard turns to me,

but I was already gone, oh lord have mercy on me.

I woke up, yawning, and noticed that I had quite a bit more hair on my arms. I thought that was unusual, so I strolled down to the bathroom to look in the mirror. I jolted. My reflection was that of a man with a short haircut staring back at me.

I figured I didn't have to worry about my looks anymore. It was about my personality, my intellect, and my wit, so I just threw on a t-shirt and jeans, then put on my socks and sneakers.

I thought I might go fishing this afternoon. Everyone would just assume I could cast, and no one would objectify me, so this really was a great opportunity. I wondered how long it would last.

The next day, I grabbed my gun and went hunting. Again, no one batted an eye. I shot a buck, came back home, and skinned it. I hung it up for four days, and, to my surprise, I was still a man when it was ready to cook.

I invited my friends over. My girlfriends were rather impressed and my guy friends kept ribbing me, saying I could do a better job but it was still pretty good. I figured they were probably just jealous.

Friday night, I decided to go to a party. I bought myself a suit and tie with my two guy friends, Mark and Lukas, and we made sexist jokes about getting laid the entire time we were shopping. They were much funnier when I wasn't a woman.

I went to the party and fucked three chicks. No one thought I was easy. No one thought I was a slut. The women all said I was quite handsome. Sarah got a bit attached and said that she thought I loved her and I apologized, saying maybe I would if we hung out more, but I just wasn't sure yet, which seemed to turn her on even more. Being a guy was so much easier.

My reputation was better instead of worse. No one judged me. In fact, the guys just congratulated me and bought me more drinks. I went to work at the firm and the lawyers I'd been working with forever, who were all men, suddenly thought that my ideas were absolutely brilliant, even though they'd simply dismissed my extremely similar ideas the week before when I was a woman. I was even up for a raise, and learned that women were indeed paid 80 cents to the dollar at this particular company. I was making significantly more than I used to. I wished that I could be a man forever.