Leora Silverman Fridman


If you’d asked a year ago, I would have
said it was water weight. It’s the juices
that keep the fridge looking
full. I only have one more bail-out
reminder: please describe descent in

full detail. You never know who
isn’t alone when you’re on that

harbor cruise. We ferry supplies out
to one another, dropping soluble fibers
into the water as we go. The harbor is only
chiclets. The smaller the particles, the less likely
taxes en route.

Single Room Occupancy

I have a person here who
thinks you’re alive. I mean, a
five. On a scale one to within, I loved
him a dead baby. All of that dirt clodding in
its half-formed eyes. See, your dose
is rubbing. I need a place to keep all
these knifings you make me think. Might
as well return to the scene. The kind of loving
is an appalled hallelujah. I like rating
your productivity on how much you
have messed. You have all that knowledge
about when to expire. You have all
those retirees cozed in.

Leora Fridman is a writer, translator and educator living in Massachusetts. Her recent and forthcoming publications are included in Denver Quarterly, Shampoo, elimae, H_NGM_N, and others.

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