Back to Issue Twenty-Nine.



        there are many paths home and few of them are safe
in the literature of birds
        Death does not make them a good person—I have not misspoken
        my mouth is ugly but free of lies
Michael holds my hand but lets go—I tell him to—at midnight I leave his house
        and vomit him in the parking lot: in the literature of birds: there is a migration
west of winter—and Gays just want to have fun!        In the parking lot I wonder if I’ve stopped
        looking        if I will and what happens after—the moon’s doomlight        sharpening—
but not crescent, not quite.

Mitchell King is a runaway witch living in Kansas City. His work is informed by contemporary queer culture and a longing for the dead.


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