by Lunchbox Editor | May 6, 2026
To bless a soil that has never been mine. Yours, by vanishing DNA and unrequited roots… Known to you only through fairytale or folklore, not by palpable dirt under your fingernails as you fall flat onto its poor, mistreated soil. You never woke up muddy or with your...
by Lunchbox Editor | May 6, 2026
My mother tells me now; “I regret my decision. I should’ve had you baptized as a baby.” She said before, “I want you to get to choose.” But I grew up to bristle, like the backyard pines, with doubts and secular opinions and an absentminded atheism. I might be going to...
by Lunchbox Editor | May 6, 2026
I ducked out of the bar leaving jacket and drink behind when I had finally had enough. The moon threw its high silver down on muddy brown streets and I realized I was right where I was supposed to be, soaking up ice through the tattered cuffs of my jeans. I wandered...
by Lunchbox Editor | May 6, 2026
I want to be a passenger in your car again. I want you to take me somewhere we’ve been before that feels brand new in the snow, like the quiet half-minute after you wake up in damp skin and it doesn’t matter what you’ve been. I want to sit across the table from you...
by Lunchbox Editor | May 6, 2026
Piano-fingers never got to play, but there was music in her throat. She lay on her bed at night and sang to herself and let her fingers dance across the air to make music where there was silence. She wondered if this was all worth it. Piano-Fingers returned home with...
