I’m on my knees while Olive plaits my curls, a dozen candles flirting with the air in this small bedroom. Angie is leaning against the wall, pupils like eight balls, smiling at her fingertips. my mother called me last night or last week or last year she told me god came to her in a dream. The fridge is humming, inconsistent and Olive’s hands are quick. she told me that our dog ran away that my father cries in my room whenever he’s sober The sun is dripping down the window, pyramids of light on Olive’s thighs. She says my name soft and worn, like an old boot she isn’t sure fits. i cant define the word home anymore Angie knocks over a candle and a drop of fire catches her shirt. For a moment, none of us move.


Yasmin Belkhyr’s poetry has appeared/will appear in Waxwing, decomP, PANK, Word Riot, and on Verse Daily. Her work has also been showcased at MOMA P.S 1, the Lincoln Center, the Kennedy Center, and the U.S Hall of Nations. Yasmin runs Winter Tangerine Review. Send her letters of love, hate and indifference at yasminbelkhyr.com.