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'THE QUEEN IS DEAD' by Yanita Georgieva

The first time I rehearsed her death it was a Sunday and a man in gym shorts begged us to just get it over with. I memorised my task: print the scripts. And oh, I printed. Copies upon copies of obituaries rained down and I sprinted nose-first through the newsroom past the floor mice and the empty rows to shove this beaming torch of paper into someone’s hand. There is something about small tasks in disaster– the soft power of a shopping list after an earthquake.
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I judge people based on what they think is valuable. Everyone does this, but I’m the kind of person who admits it. There’s a group that people watches with me, and we pay attention to what someone picks up and leaves behind. Marisol is the loudest of the group, and Brenda is the tall one. I’m not sure how old they are, but I know they are both older than me. We record what we see in our log—indicate the item, the day, the place, a brief description of the person. We like to include a note about who we think they are. If they’re someone who arrives too early to parties, if they don’t drink, if they come from a wealthy family. Our group meets in Marisol’s apartment. She is big on litter. “Look at that man,” she says, pointing out her window. “He walked right past that water bottle.” She shakes her head. “Some people have no class.”
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'LONG HAIR BO BURNHAM' by Devon Capizzi

I’m in my bedroom and my therapist Greg is talking to me from my computer screen. Our Zoom boxes are exactly the same size. I can’t stop fidgeting. I’m happy Greg can only see me from the chest up. Underneath the tabletop desk, I pull at my fingers and knead the center of my palm until the skin is red and humid and tender. I wonder what he would think, if he could see the things I have to do to make myself comfortable enough to be uncomfortable and talk to him for an hour every other week. Today, we are talking about my gender, which is both woman and not woman, both non-binary and resistant to any kind of terminology, even the kind that’s supposedly made for people like me. But that’s the problem. The problem, I tell Greg, is that I feel like the language is not made for me. I am still outside of it. It doesn’t feel right. I conjure examples of things that are not me.
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what’s good for the goose is good for the deeply personal poem / I’m trying to lose five or ten deeply personal poems / deeply personal poems are the original superfood / doctors hate this one weird deeply personal poem / it’s ten o’clock on a Saturday night do you know where your deeply personal poem is / deeply personal poems are the world’s largest underground network of caves / so cold / limestone and dark / many deeply personal poems make light work / that’s what my dad always said / deeply personal poems are a great source of vitamin D / a magician never reveals their deeply personal poems / but what’s in those sleeves / are you fucking deeply personal poems or nah / the Wi-Fi password is deeply personal poems / have you tried turning them off and on again / I brought you into this deeply personal poem and I can take you right back out again
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