Atlas and Alice, Issue 19
Colette Cosner
Jesus Year When you’re eight and your mother’s boyfriend buys you a calendar that’s just past and you don’t stop crying in the stationary aisle of Barnes & Noble until you have a daughter of your own. Time just one of those things we say. Like that letter I wrote you, bottled up now and floating in the belly of our last great white — had I known there was going to be all this talk of mercy, I would have bucked the fuck up a long time ago.
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