Back to Issue Twenty-Two.

[untitled 327]



When I say                                           endless,
what I mean                                         is mist

hovering over                                      the asphalt column of
New England,                                      blue

abalone and                                         wampum. Faded
cedar shingles.

The tonna shell                                    becoming purgatory.
Cape Cod                                             in Fibonacci.

Here                                                     the waves
open                                                     and close

like an apology, some                            kind
of contritious                                        monster

—Asterion,                                           the lonely
Minotaur                                              chasing her

friends.                                                 And laying there

—driftwood                                          half-floured
underneath                                           the ocean’s

final                                                     membrane, heaving
slightly, having                                     destroyed

itself                                                    in place of seeing
itself                                                    destroyed:

these enclosures,
these imploded thoughts
of intention.

These trees, every pair

holding up
scenes of this
endless film.



[untitled 312]



Dusk, and it is a waste
A waste these dimmed fuchsia auroras
A waste these muted cries for the cable wires,
slumped like silent nooses

I no longer see the street as a tress but as a canal
carved from a bullet: distinctly precious,
our long violent paths to indifference

Our matutinal suburbs, distinguishing themselves
into broken pits of battery acid. This is what I tell
myself, when I can bear to look to see

A jet again
It’s suicide exhaust wasting imprinting the sky
The twilight, this inescapable night which, for now,
is lambent and young and unforgiving

–here you are again
in your banged delusions,
your mad feasts of yourself,
in all your twisted newness.

Who will love us in this poverty?


Ashley Porras is an Immuno-Oncology Research Associate in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Dash Literary Journal, Chronogram Magazine, and the Wellesley Review, among other outlets. Ashley was raised in Bethany, Oklahoma. She is the daughter of two immigrants, and is an immigrant herself.

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