By Maggie Kennedy “The orange tastes like a refrigerator,” my son says,spitting out his bite and pretending to gag,and though I have never tasted a refrigeratorI know what he means. The orange tastes like the plastic it was wrapped in.And though I have never eaten plastic,the conjured smell fills my…
By Benjamin Jackson Sweat-scented sheets which once wrapped legs and limbs, limbered by love and lust and expansive, demonstrative selves now sit clean and sterile, cast aside on a lonely shelf like trophies commemorating a sport no longer played. You folded them crisply with your distant hands, just before you…