By Paige Dixon
morningtime has gold in its mouth mist before mine at sunrise a six-month old puppy is nations away while crows watch me walk to work. today we’re taking it easy she says, and I don’t know about easy— it’s dark here at night and easy comes from the seventies (or something) not to be found when I feel like there is no air to breathe: I’ve never taken it easy in my life. still, there are dolphins in the waves sometimes, and glittering rocks on the ground. in Isla Vista it’s broken glass, but still it sparkles, like the taste of ginger and maple, like the crystalized honey still in the spice cabinet. we still make tea and quesadillas at midnight and listen to the palm trees hitting the walls in the wind. I go to sleep in the dark, in cotton, in bamboo and feathers, in three pillows, still.
Paige Dixon (she/her) is a recent graduate from the University of California, Santa Barbara, where she studied writing and literature. Her work explores the deepness of experience, the limitations of communication, and the concepts that shape our perceptions. She has previously been published in The Catalyst.
Janis Butler Holm served as Associate Editor for Wide Angle, the film journal, and currently works as a writer and editor in sunny Los Angeles. Her prose, poems, art, and performance pieces have appeared in small-press, national, and international magazines. Her plays have been produced in the U.S., Canada, Russia, and the U.K.