Poem by R. J. Keeler
After it exercises its right to swell to a red giant and incinerate the younger earth.
After it exercises its right to swell to a red giant and incinerate the younger earth.
The feeling of being protected, of being immune, and of being separate vanished.
It makes no sense to close yourself off from others now. I receive a joke, laugh my head off, pass it on. If it's not in a language that the other person knows, I translate it.
Tattoos are the promises we make to ourselves.
It’s been so long that laugh tracks seem fresh again.
It’s not the spasms or pain I remember, only the damp, hot, itchy, smelly strips of wool.
The Kumbh Mela never comes to Pittsburgh: no one mistakes the Allegheny for the Ganges.
We didn’t realize the degree to which irrigation saturated our lives until our first trip to the Oregon coast.
I like first-person headshots possibly more than I like writing.
We don’t know who buries us.