Growth Hacking
At first, we thought the mango tree was another one of Susan’s shticks. A way to feel good about showing up every morning and motivating us to write code or handle support tickets or cold-call prospects or dream up new marketing bullshit or whatever it was management expected us to …
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flyBaby
We flew our babies high, worry-free, with ample cord wrapped around the trees. We flew them in the open skies, their sequined booties glinting the sun, stars flashing at midday. And when the fogs came, we rolled back our roofs and flew them from our living rooms, gin in hand, …
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The Universe
One day, the Universe said to me, “I am the Universe. I will give you what you ask for.” That same day, I submitted a request in writing. I wrote: I would like Giovanni to call me immediately, take me out for a romantic dinner tonight, and fall in love …
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My Name is Reaškkas
It means laughter. What I left (I want you to imagine laughter without a beginning or an end. A laughter that is untethered and limitless. A laughter that is impossible to smother or cage.) I got the name Reaškkas several weeks after I was born. Until then, I was munno …
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The Night Watch
Big flakes swirl around outside while she drinks black coffee. Flannel shirt, wool hat, fingerless gloves. The thrum of the ship is steady, familiar now that she’s been out on the ice for a few weeks. Night watch on the Research Vessel Ātarangi. ‘The shadow.’ An escape and an adventure. …
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Blackbird
His right forearm has a tattoo of a grackle, the louder, more annoying cousin to the crow and not much of a fan favorite, as far as birds go. Its long spindly legs stand straight up, running alongside the tendons and veins in his arm. Its body blooms, puffing up …
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Broken Pool Noodle
I’m leaving my fourth and final IVF appointment. We have no more chances. Well, more accurately, we have no more money. And even though I would never tell my husband, I’m a little relieved. My abdomen feels foreign to me. It’s become a bruise factory over the last two years, …
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A dirge for a sound long unheard
I I write you a love poem in a language far removed from my own. With words I’d never utter for you to hear. When I read it for you, I replace five-syllabled words with memorized sounds. I want you to admire the poet. II You edit …
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A Matter of Being
Hair “Mastectomy?” Joe, my husband of forty-four years, says robotically. Dr. Robeson, the oncologist, describes to Joe how my breast cancer works, and I watch as Joe tries to uphold his Baptist deacon stature. I remember the day he said, “I do,” there was a similar wave of stiff astonishment …
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