Puerto Del Sol

And I believe in candlelit kitchens and rooms thick with wood smoke and the smell of roast chicken cooked in olives and salads hefty with burnt walnuts, sliced apples and vinegar; fresh bread folded with pesto and seeds; dark wine staining the painted juice glasses she collected out of nostalgia, out of love for her mother, a drunk, whose tin bangles shook when she stirred her guests’ martoonis.

She taught me ritual, my mother says.

Ritual is legacy, is habit. The histories we carry in our wrists, our kneecaps.

I listen to my mother reading from behind a closed door.

There’s no privacy in this house, we complain, you can hear everything.

But she never builds ceilings beneath the beams.


Super proud of the stellar work from my graduating class at the University of Arizona. Check out our look book, and my piece, "This One Long Winter," which will be published in Fourth Genre this year.

Maybe it’s obvious, the link between rupture and injury—an organ goes berserk, a spinal disc splits and leaks, or an Achilles tendon splays. Illness, on the other hand, might come upon us more like clouds than lightning. Like a fog rolling in. And yet, doesn’t it offer its own kind of rupturing? A fever pokes holes, deflates, makes things go pop. Things like roles and routines. Soon there are no names to call upon other than “ill.” I am sick, we tell others. And if months go by with still no answers, if no path appears to take you out of your body—to uncurl your thoughts from your chest, your guts—you might start to bang on the walls. You might start to push against your own malfunction, test the boundaries of your ruptured self; to reach over the glass for other peoples’ secrets, for safety, for leverage; to air out your abject body like a secret itself. The shattering of the distinction between the self and the other.

I want everyone to see it, what’s inside. I want their needles. I want their tongues. I want their sickness so I can call it ours.


That one February we walked around the bend on the frozen creek through the snow, past shuttered cabins and silent black train tracks, and came back to the house as the sun was setting, with soaked jean hems and soggy boots and scarves damp from humid breathing. We hung up our clothes in the shower and over kitchen chairs, but nothing dried. Not really.