Fragments
Fragments is a space for writing that stays with questions rather than trying to resolve them. I keep returning, at my own pace, to Black queer survival, abolitionist care, and world-making in common.
Recent Posts
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Salt
The ice is sweating. Moisture gathering at the surface, at the precise line where the ice meets the water it’s in the process of becoming. I’m watching it from the bench on the pier, the same bench, the same eastward orientation I keep returning to without quite deciding to. Gulls have settled at that line…
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Fool’s Spring
The air is doing something it has no business doing in March. I notice it before I’m fully awake to noticing—something in the chest, a small release, the jaw unclenching in a way I didn’t realize it had been clenched. I’m already on the route when it registers. The cold that’s been structural for months,…
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The Body as First Register
My body has been the first place where things gather. A pressure sits in my back—a low bracing that has begun to feel structural, the kind of tightness that doesn’t shift with stretching or rest. It moves without ever fully leaving. Some days it settles between my shoulder blades; other days it spreads into my…
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Time, Held
Time arrives before anything happens. It shows up early, settles in, rearranges the day around itself. You learn it through how the body prepares. Through the way the chest stays slightly lifted, like it’s waiting for a tap on the shoulder. Through how often the jaw tightens when the phone lights up. Through the reflex…
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Structures of Warmth and Violence
The sun is warm on my face at the port, and I don’t trust it.Midwinter light has no business feeling this gentle.The river is frozen hard enough to refuse reflection, to hold its surface without depth.Ice tightens everything into place.And still, the sun presses against my skin, insistent, intimate, as if it has selected me…