I want to preface this by saying I do love my mother. That truth gnaws at me. I don’t wish to betray anyone. Not her, not the family unit, and hopefully not God. (The well-known adage in a Muslim household: Who next? Your mother? And then? Your mother. And then? Your mother? And then? Your father.) I’d love her to death even if I wasn’t ordered to do so. A parallel: the magic,
In the summer of 2020 the Norwegian press reported that Eurasian elk had been sighted on several of the western islands for the first time in a century. I trace their route back to the islands along the mainland peninsulato the road bridge at Tysnes wilded by their meanderings believing I lie where they lay on matted lichens & lingonberry buttoned with ticks gnawing for
As a devout student of José Esteban Muñoz’s conceptions of queer cultural and political (re)imagination, I am often thinking about futurity and queer futurity in particular in the ways I structure my own life but also in the art I most like to seek out and burrow into.
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Papa doesn’t know he isn’t eating the fish he catches. Papa doesn’t know that the fish he so tenderly submerges in that yellow pool of egg then douses in that grainy Louisiana Fish Fry has probably never seen the ocean, its most recent memories, if it had been alive for them, the bright overhead lights in HEB, the firm prod of a tired fishmonger’s finger, the inside of a