by Courtney Traub

Published in Issue No. 189 ~ February, 2013

I’m a waste of space,


I think,

The way I butcher the time, spread

like a sticky centerfold in front of me,

The way it’s exhausted,


The way I stretch out the fibers

Of all the gifts

Until they’re stiff.

A dough that’s unusable

Settles like a stone on my desk,



I’m a joke of in-between


The way I take my liminal


And turn them into rice-paper

Thin phrases that crumble and peel,

Like the glue meticulously peeled off hands

Under desks at school,

Or Breton buckwheat crepes

Whose edges have gone dry and crisp, uncovered,

Curling up

And gathering sad mold in the fridge.

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Courtney Traub is a native Los Angelean who lived and worked in Paris for several years as a journalist, teacher, and failed waitress before picking up and moving to Oxford, where she's currently working toward a PHd in English.