Jake Gyllenhaal’s heart briefly stutters
Jake Gyllenhaal’s heart briefly stutters on the weekends at 9:45 p.m. in Taylor Swift’s current timezone, when she steps on stage and sings the breakup anthem she wrote for him— 10 minutes of pain, raw as the day he left her. She looked him in the eyes and said, “You may be leaving, but you’ll feel every note, every time I sing this song.” He laughed—even then, she called herself a witch— but it must be true. He has been plagued by phantom itches, spine shudders, unbidden memories. Now, her power is gestalt—she commands her audiences of 70,000 with a flick of her hair, a single note. 70,001 voices, seeking him like a tireless arrow. Opening night, he summoned a physician. “Panic attack,” she told him, pressing a benzo into his outstretched palm. But when it happened the next night at the same time, he knew.
Minding my Business
Instagram wants to help me grow my business but I just want to grow flowers grow my mind grow my children I’d like to grow my hair and my screen-free hours and my relationship with myself How hard is it to grow tomatoes grow a softer heart grow a louder voice Look how I just grew this poem from one word to sixty-three
In a time such as this
Jillian Stacia
Parenting feels like tap dancing at a funeral - heels click-clacking against a cedar coffin. Like throwing confetti in a hailstorm. Like sending your kids to school the day after a shooting. “Chins up, Buttercups!” I say to my children. I search for goodness like a game of i-Spy. Look: a butterfly, an old woman with a see-saw smile, the color yellow. See how the flower pushes through the earth in spite of the frost. See how she goes and blooms anyway. At night I hunt for hope, trap fireflies in glass jars. Look: magic But children smell the truth like bloodhounds: they know that it’s just another thing that’s dying- just another fading light trapped behind glass.
Cheap Thrills
I’m a cautious person but once in a while I cut loose and eat raw cookie dough ignore a sign that says no right on red return a library book a few days late click ‘agree’ without reading the terms and conditions. I might drink coffee after noon let the kids watch a show before 5pm go to bed without washing my face buy a dress I don't need just because I like how it swishes around my legs watch out world I think I might tell someone how I really feel laugh louder than necessary ask for what I want give without expectation of getting back What was that? Did you say something? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of my living.
God Never Says
You’re being ridiculous That’s irrational She’s not afraid Why aren’t you more like her? Maybe if you tried harder It’s not that bad It could be worse I had it harder than you You have no idea how good you have it God says: I can handle your fear, your irrationality, your doubt. You do not need to be her for me to love you I made you, I delight in you I am not ashamed of your weaknesses My mercy shines brighter for them It is that bad It is hard One day I will wipe every tear from every eye I will make all things new Though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death do not fear, my child, for I am with you.
#dayinthelife
I am not interested in your day in the life reel, unless it is a real life, a real reel, if there is such a thing (and I suspect there isn’t). Still, if you must make one, I beg you— show me the part where the headline grabs you by the throat, where you stride outside to press your bare toes into the grassy green, into the ground to ground your grief. By all means, show me the part where dinner is cereal, milky half moons in the bottom of bowls because, as it turns out, there is a fine line between Fun Mom and No More F’s To Give Mom. Go ahead and show me the part where you and your husband float through each other all afternoon, two ghosts haunting the hallways. Go on and show me the part where you unzip your mother self, leave her on the dresser, touch his cheek to see if he is real. And please, show me the part where you pour the wine, and when he asks what you are celebrating, the part where you raise your glass and say: today, another day of life, another day in the life.
Postcard from a Hammock
I’m a swinger here, on account of the slack I’m given. I sway all day, as the youths say (and to be clear, nobody is swapping me, in case you’re getting any ideas). Everyone (as in me and my thoughts) talks about the soft, green belly of the canopy. It’s a sweet shade of a solar-powered sugar highway. A blooming success. This here mother works full-time and has houseguests. Treeeeee-riffic for her. You can pretend to be an eyeball here, too. Close your fabric eyelid and turn the world (as far as your backyard) all shadows and blue. Planes are dubbed in as intermittent ocean waves, crested with shhhhhhhhhh. Or maybe that’s just one mama and one babe cruising eightish miles above the sea, seeking the sound of sleep. You can pretend to be lost here. Because in reality, you really don’t feel like being found (for a few hours). Love when you write. I’ll swing by when I’m back.
A Seed & A Woman
A seed dies to become a flower. She gives herself entirely to the soil, she disappears to create something new. Is the flower more beautiful than the seed? She died to become a mother. She gave herself -- desires, body, time -- she disappears to create something new. Is the child more important than the mother? Can both the seed and flower exist? The woman and the mother? Does one have to die to become the other?
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I enjoyed all of these! I especially resonated with #dayinthelife!
I really resonated with cheap thrills and God never says 💛💛 was so excited to see another issue from you guys! ✨