I am 2 years old, and Mom and Dad have left me for the afternoon with my grandmother! She is an excellent babysitter, conscientious and game. We have two BIG dogs who I am fascinated by, and while Grandma’s not looking I make the studied decision to stick my finger down the ear canal of one of them and see what happens next. The dog bites me, which I find mildly offensive. Grandma is distraught. She conducts a thorough medical exam: no blood, no obvious carnage. Still she follows me like a shadow around the house, fretting. Soon I have…
“ROMANCE IS NOT ONLY WONDERFUL, IT IS IMPERATIVE,” reads a magnet on the fridge of your high school English teacher. Beneath these words is an attribution to Maya Angelou. You have been thinking about this magnet a lot lately.
You read the quote for the first time while babysitting your teacher’s daughter in 10th or 11th grade; the beauty of it stuck with you, and you wanted to find out what text it was from. You looked up the sentence and could find zero evidence that Maya Angelou had ever said or written it (“No results found”), or any close…
A NOTE ON LANGUAGE: This essay is about patterns I interpret as falling along predictably gendered lines, due mostly (I think) to the way men are socialized and given power rather than to anything immutable about their biology. When I use the terms “women” and “female,” I include trans women, obviously; same goes for “male” and “men” including trans men, although most trans men I know are not guilty of the same transgressions as cis men. …
an indoor / outdoor cat,
like soft serve made from / plant-based milk,
like empathizing with both Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo / and his Juliet
in deciding to end it all / for the other.
Bisexual as kissing your / bisexual co-worker on the mouth
(consensually), just to see / what happens next. You get your
bisexuality from your Midwestern / childhood,
riding your bike against / the growing darkness
and kissing your friend on / the neighbors’ trampoline (both girls
so you didn’t / count it, until you did),
just before / you felt your first
intimation / of intimacy
when the neighbor boy and you / would play football
and tackle one…
The train itself always arrives a few minutes beforehand, shepherding its daily crop of Chicago commuters into Historic Union Station, which, after being repurposed in 1984 as a shopping center and event space, was re-repurposed back into a full-service transit depot in 2024. To reach Union Station this morning, you caught the Orange Line (you sold your car long ago) from your co-op in Fishers, a town that elected Indiana’s first Democratic socialist mayor in 2022 and has since surprised everyone by developing into one of the great Midwestern hubs of regenerative agriculture. You live there with your partner, an…
Bravo, Savannah. THANK YOU for your beautiful reporting and advocacy on this important issue to our state! I cannot wait to read more of your work!
“These days are so long!” my roommate exclaimed one summer day around noon, throwing themselves dramatically down onto our communal couch. “I know,” I agreed grimly, and at the same moment that they said, “I love it,” I said, “I hate it.”
Interminable was the word I used most frequently to describe the days that constituted this past summer. Or — in the same vowel count (neat!) — They dragged the hell on. Within the span of one week in mid-March, the rhythms and routines of normal life shut down; my in-person teaching job was suspended, indefinitely; and I broke…
During the year in college in which I was fortunate enough to live abroad — a stroke of extraordinary luck and naive privilege which I have only recently, in this age of most forms of travel being either unsafe or unethical, begun to comprehend — I met a girl, a fellow American, on a walking tour of Lisbon. I didn’t fall in love with her, but I came pretty damn close.
I was in a phase of my travels in which I’d found myself phenomenally, and unexpectedly, alone: I’d been meant to meet up with a friend in Portugal, but…
That is why the sadness passes: the new presence inside us, the presence that has been added, has entered our heart, has gone into its innermost chamber and is no longer even there, is already in our bloodstream. — Rilke
You did the impossible:
you changed my mind.
ON, the attainability of crispy tofu.
ON, the merit and comprehensibility of
basketball references. ON — most unlikely of all —
beer, which tasted bad at first then tasted like
trauma healing itself.
(I didn’t predict
back then that you’d be
holding back on me.)
“All rules are made up,”