Dear Diarama

Here are the directions for our new kissing game. Put your name in the hat. Put your hat on the hang. Hang your head in your hands. Hand your outs.

Dear Diarama

I am on a gender bender. I stood on one neck and then the next.

Dear Diarama

These horse chestnuts weigh me down, fuller than usual with milk. Stop lying. Where the future rams back.

The Georgia Review Blogs

Still a touch inchoate, The Georgia Review Blog gives readers a place to find out and sound off.

Welcome, folks!

Dear Diarama

I drank so much. Castor oil. Never again will I go back in that basement with my hands in front of me, dark, bumping into whatever that was, his skull, his skull in my most tender, my most tender mildewed, my fulcrum in the furnace, one foot in the sump pump, mascara on the run.

Dear Diarama

The top ten things that ruin my life. Caverns. Topiaries. Stopping in the name. Before you. Think it.

Dear Diarama

Mr. Homework hates my guts. He tapes a dead balloon to my crochet. And falls asleep.

Dear Diarama

My giddy hoof precedes me. I will try on the bias cut.

Dear Diarama

I mix a careful riot of heats. The number astounds. Onceover.

Dear Diarama

Hot, hot. I rung the whelp, the washing cloth. Or it was wrung.

Dear Diarama

I can't believe Mom. I can't bake Mom. The candied pan.

Dear Diarama

I get in my digs. Oatmeal, bottle, glass green bottle. I dig in between ribs.

Dear Diarama

The boys don't like me. They don't eat the rice cakes. I lay out for them in the trap.

Dear Diarama

Why no gutters? I bandit, ahistorical, up the roof. And how.

Dear Diarama

I perform my own dentistry. I crimp the sink.

And then, my wooly tork.