pressing outwards, towards some kind of

Giorgia Sage


she liked to sit in the garden
of the empty house next door, all
cinderblocks and velcro plants
leaves would stick to her tights
she’d peel them off her
daddy longlegs
musing over suffering
and malcontent
how to kill herself so
no one would ever know

she smoked cigarettes
sitting on a window frame
brown and black, distorted
ribcage with the weeds like
smoke inside

her wide-brimmed hat was a
red wool halo
over sorrow-darkened hair
“the saddest angel you would
ever see”
seeking salvation more than
giving it

from your window to hers
passing promises in
preparation for a noble war
silent soldier with smoke in her bones
blowing into you and out
growing and withering

she thought of flight
as the smoke pooled against
the sky, pressing outwards
towards some kind of



Giorgia Sage is a bus rider who eats fog and tangerines. She has been published in the Bicycle Review, Belletrist Coterie, and Sugar Mule. She currently lives in San Francisco with a split-faced cat and two frogs.



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