In Delaware Water Gap, I met a stranger I’d been looking for since Georgia. We both stayed the night in town, at a donation-based hostel in the basement of a church.

All she wanted was to look like all the other brown girls. They were everywhere, versions of the girl she’d prayed to look like in high school. Girls whose bodies and faces she craved. Girls she wished she could be. Girls her mom hated that she resembled.

I dream that Hoseok is my bus driver. We hightail a heist at the British Museum, returning stolen art to their rightful owners.

Online Exclusive Poetry from Fargo Nissim Tbakhi

You can believe it or not, all of this / heartbreaking / drag

On the eve of Phoenix’ 23rd birthday, we sing, all the / furniture pushed up against the balloon-adorned walls of / their living room, the New York kind, compact, quaint a / broker might say when he is trying to sell this fantasy.

He left the door unlocked, in case I arrived before he got back from teaching. I thought I’d timed the drive from Durham to ensure an appearance well after school let out, but he didn’t answer when I knocked and it was quiet and dim in the apartment.

a man gives just enough / to thunderous applause / and we made a statue/ of it.

She worked in a supermarket before Showing women the way to the leeks, soaking the mop, affixing stickers to the cheeks of apples

I vaguely knew about Dua Lipa before I saw her in concert: pop star, Albanian, that hit single with Da Baby. Mostly I’d come to associate her with my friend Isaiah.

His beard uncombed / as starlight. His crime couldn’t sing / without a tongue

beneath the night’s embroidery, / hold me.

The Stonewood mall in the late-1980s had been a site of several aspirational misfires to fit in, be seen.

Singing always ended with a death in this house.

i open my hands & eat the bird inside the ball of light, the song of the bird of the devil burns a hole in my body & out of it a streak of feathers

At the end of our fourth date, Amy and I have our first kiss. SEVENTEEN’s “Left / & Right” autoplays on YouTube in the background.

Love is an improbable / shaking / of hips / on a dancefloor called Nevertheless,

In her newest collection The Last Catastrophe, Allegra Hyde tracks ideas of  apocalypse and collective action from an intergalactic finishing school to…

It takes one hand to imitate : the unabashed kidsfucking in their car : a bird on piano : near a spur linein the woods : but you hear a flock : j told…

Bars or no bars, if you did have something worth having, they’d take it, whether you were ridiculous about home security or not.

What was it that slid through the field of my hand? / A mountain. I will say it was a mountain, although / it is no longer here for any other to see. It is elsewhere / and doubtless sitting like a toad whose voraciousness / desires to be appeased.