I taste the malbec evaporate off your lips —
the last time I thought of it, I wasn’t pregnant.
I still might not be. The white caps of memory
wash over my twenties-turned-basalt and close the cenote
where I keep flakes of tonka beans and pipe tobacco,
a crumble of crucified lamb from the parrilla, sweet
woodruff dried in lint from your pocket –
the dulce de leche and whiskey left on bits
of beard still in my comb. I still might not
I brush my hair. And I brush my hair.
Emily is a writer and bookmaker living in Detroit. Her work pulls largely from experiences enjoyed while working aboard expedition vessels as a wilderness guide/naturalist in the polar regions, South Pacific and British Isles. She’s mostly retired from ship-based work and focused on navigating life as a woman, artist and mother. In 2022 she earned an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, founded the MacGriff Writing Studio and joined the MA/MFA Design for Climate Action faculty at the College for Creative Studies. Her work has been published in Australia and domestically.