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by Sara Khayat

after tracy fuad 

these anthurium are smiling. 
when i propagate my plants i feel like a mad scientist. 
a florist for a day. 45 degree angle cut at the stem.
your order has shipped.
maybe where i’m from doesn’t exist yet.
stolen by porch pirates. 
we collect every picture that’s ever been taken of ourselves
spin the zoetrope for a mechanical reckoning of limbs & laughter.
out of context i’m just a pile of bones occupying the couch.
out of context i’m just eyes in the darkness.
just another yawn echoing across oceans.
my spotted begonia was lost in the mail. 
i imagine it dead on some conveyor belt awaiting an xray.
& all i wanted was my money back.
an etsy conversation with the seller.
maybe my thirst was the problem all along.
my body is a broken record.
29 years of eclipses.
when they ask if we’re okay & we answer with the truth
        this is where emergency exits were born.


Sara Khayat was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. For six years, she was editor-in-chief of Paper Plane Pilots, a literary collective and publishing company. She has a BA in English/Creative Writing (California State University, Northridge) and an MFA in Poetry and Fiction (Regis University). Her poems and short stories have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies over the last decade or so. She always chose truth over dare at elementary school parties. Proof of her writing can be dated all the way back to old kindergarten findings and floppy disks. Her mind is full of wildflowers, ladybugs and gray matters. Give her a shout and she’ll give you a whisper.

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