Lhasa in ReykjavikSeptember 19, 2019

September 19, 2019

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TelemachusAugust 29, 2019

August 29, 2019

Like any good son, I pull my father out
of the water, drag him by his hair

through white sand, his knuckles carving a trail
the waves rush in to erase. Because the city

beyond the shore is no longer
where we left it. Because the bombed

cathedral is now a cathedral
of trees. I kneel beside him to show how far

I might sink. Do you know who I am,
Ba? But the answer never comes. The answer

is the bullet hole in his back, brimming
with seawater. He is so still I think

he could be anyone’s father, found
the way a green bottle might appear

at a boy’s feet containing a year
he has never touched. I touch

his ears. No use. I turn him
over. To face it. The cathedral

in his sea-black eyes. The face
not mine – but one I will wear

to kiss all my lovers good-night:
the way I seal my father’s lips

with my own & begin
the faithful work of drowning.

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DataAugust 12, 2019

August 12, 2019

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Hold Your OwnJune 18, 2019

June 18, 2019

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MixtapesMay 30, 2019

May 30, 2019
“The greatest act of love was to make a tape for someone. It was the only way we could share music and it was also a way of advertising yourself. Selection, order, the lettering you used for the track list, how much technical detail you went into, whether or not you added artwork or offered only artwork and no track list at all, these choices were as codified as a Victorian bouquet.”

– Lavinia Greenlaw, The Importance of Music to Girls

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Queen RahelMay 7, 2019

May 7, 2019

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