Prime Directive During Venus Retrograde
the silverfox fur Nana gave me is unsafe here even within plastic
as the azaleas gasp at the humidity but still wilt to empty latex balloons.
it’s March in the south & they’re naming the geographies of Pluto,
a non-planet with moons & topography & a crowd-sourced identity.
they say mountains then features like the proper noun they’ve chosen matters
more than the physical properties of what they’re naming but cannot touch.
shea butter, palm ash, rusted window screen. one for the honey,
two for the smoke, the cane fields, the fire. I’m running out of ways
to say I’m lonely enough for the two of us. I’m lying here lonely & don’t
touch me. the soupy air or the heat on or the fans non-stop, a fine film
of pollen that time alone helps disappear. I’m lying in bed & I can see my closet
& its too many clothes, hear every ugly sound the windchime makes. I never
had enough breath for the clarinet, for the marching band. water pools
the cracked concrete street. I never had roots deep enough to know home.
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Everything Has Been Moved, Even the Dead by Jen Siraganian - October 27, 2026
- Sundress Reads: Review of Destroy Me, Desecrate My Bones - October 26, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Everything Has Been Moved, Even the Dead by Jen Siraganian - October 26, 2026



