“How fitting!” said the woman at the mall, her rosy cheeks flaring up. “How fitting!” said the man in the grocery store, waiting in line in front of us to purchase his…
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My author bio reads “Jesse Rice-Evans is a queer Southern poet. Her work has appeared in The Queer Girls Raised in the South Anthology from Freeverse Press, Yes Poetry, Monstering,…
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February 1990. My older sister is five. Our father aims the bulk of the VHS-camcorder at the birthday girl, who already has learned how to open presents and be polite…
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I don’t remember their canopies or the shape of their leaves, only their trunks. They were whorled and bulbous—disfigured like the trees painted into a fairytale’s haunted forest. But they…
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Photo by Alex Sushil The wood floor of the Peacock Room was warm under my mostly-bare ass cheeks. Prince’s “Kiss” blasted through the small performance space adjacent to the bar,…
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Judy Garland’s ruby slippers as Dorothy Gale in the 1939 Wizard of Oz. Photographed by Kevin Burkett. When my niece was eight, I took her shopping to buy new…
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Today the rain is relentless and so cold here that I’ve turned on the heat though it’s finally spring. The house finches have retreated deep into the opaque arborvitae outside…
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It began insidiously. I was a comparative literature major. Fellow students and professors alike assumed I studied English and Chinese, rather than English and French. They were puzzled when I…
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How does a change in vocabulary save your life? —F.…
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1. Childhood in the Philippines involves two separate worlds: there is outside, and there is inside. You’re outside during the day, and at the first hint of darkening orange…
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The most prevalent memory I have about Día de Los Muertos—when I lived in Mexico—is my grandmother going to the local bakery and buying us, my older sister and I,…
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I was supposed to die, the story goes. I was supposed to move from my comatose state, from the null space I’d occupied for three weeks, into a more permanent…
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A Literacy Narrative on Cliché Throughout the day, I mutter different clichés to myself. They serve as exhortations and pick-me-ups, private consolations when I’m at wit’s end; I hang on…
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It’s hard for me to write scholarly work, though I’ve been told by poets and scholarly writers alike that I’ve a scholarly mind. I’m sure this stems from what…