Anastasia Jill: 3 poems


I rescued her after awhile,

this darling living in my asylum.

Even the blackest hole

can feel love,

I suppose.


There are instructions in her bones,

how to build me, how to demolish.

She is thymine hard

cytosine soft.


I forgot,

she don’t react well

with other elements.


The cheek of her ass is in my shirt

and her lower back tells stories

of good morning newscasts:


cloudy with a chance of lavender;

traffic on the 108.


Mornings are the worst

but her legs ain’t,

not in my kitchen.


Her gaze fits around me twice

like rotations of the sun

while she makes me food

and asks if I’m celebrating Lent.


I tell her I’m not a Christian.

She fucks up breakfast

and sits in my lap,


gorging on the skepticism

juices dribbling

down my chin.


cold beer

Moon deathrops out of sky,

outside’s the coldest it's been

since July.

We were on the news that night,

looking like a loving couple

and it was magic, sparklers and booze.

She remembers fourth o’fireworks,

chinese pagodas, jars of wine

and I remember her,

the poise of her mouth before the boom,

but this ain’t a holiday; this is downtown

and we’re December babes now.

Smog wears the glint of midnight

and sticks parade as trees,

bouquets of buildings are flanked

by roof rats and panhandlers

are asking for a dollar fifty.

She cleans up misty bottles

lined around her eyes because

she hates crying in public.

She hates me like a lawyer,

like the winter and the night.

She lights a cigarette to cloud

her PBR dreams.


We drink. Not to us.

But to something more grand.

Anastasia Jill is a queer writer living in the South. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fiction Anthology and has been featured with, Lunch Ticket, FIVE:2:ONE, apt, Anomaly Literary Journal, 2River, Gertrude Press, Minola Review, and more.

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