the blueshift journal

On planet earth we touch ourselves

and call it progress. Sometimes we think

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the end is coming, but it is only a dream.

Or maybe a light. Or maybe a faded

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memory of another place. The first half of

anything is green and glowing. You can

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hold it in your hands and drink from it

slowly. Like a landscape it changes

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size depending on what surrounds you.

We’re surrounded by men who walk and

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talk and break things with their hands

while we hide and gasp and drown

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inside our bodies. You can’t imagine anything

outside this image—silk screen flesh and

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blood rendered softly with each forgetting

breath. Gendered birds spinning through

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the skies. Guns going off at night and in the

morning and in the afternoon and the evening.

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Endless thawing. The realization that suffering

is nothing more than a heart’s gravity.