Blue skies from pain My heart has never been strong. I pack another box, tape it shut, and wonder how I will ever survive this move. I check my phone: no messages. Of course there are no messages. I move through this complicated night alone, trying not to touch the strings. Strings of memory, strings of dreaming, strings of guilt and sorrow. Tripwires that will send me rattling down the

Imaginary Numbers The machine is in debt. An impossible situation, really — we built them to be better than us. To be smarter, stronger, free from the need for that dopamine hit. Add to cart. Buy now. But the machine loves shoes. The machine cannot wear shoes, of course. But still, the machine loves shoes. Red vinyl knee-high platforms. Birkenstocks. The sturdiest work boots that money can buy. Seven pairs

Le plafond There are pink index cards taped to everything in the apartment. Pink cards, grubby beige strips of masking tape, my handwriting in black sharpie. Miroir, porte, ordinateur. We are learning French, in the lazy, haphazard way that we do most things. We are learning French in case we really do need to flee to Canada, because it increases your score on the immigration test. We are learning French