Elizabeth Switaj

this dangerous habitual criminal, I fingered soles & pounded leather, shaping shoes by smell as much as by the shapes my hands rested in when their force reached the limit set by material resistance my resistance was never material in June, if soap -y smell of new flowers doesn’t lie, I said my absent eyes that […]

I heard my hands were yellow, and in the lines I could feel deeper, like tea I never knew what any of that means if colors have smells then yellow lingered in front of my face when I held up my sweet tobacco-scented hands against the heat —a waste, I burned anyway I was already […]