Like starting a new season of a TV show, where your favorite character has a different haircut.
Like you’re Mary-Kate dressed as Ashley.
Like you got a tattoo of your face… over your face.
Like seeing your third-grade teacher in tennis shoes.
Like seeing your doctor in falsies.
Ben Kassoy (he/him) is a payphone that rings.
Ben Kassoy (he/him) is a cartographer in a coma, psychokinetically mapping underwater worlds, waiting for someone to one day discover his sunken cities.
Ben Kassoy (he/him) is having three vertebrae removed so he can put his ear right up to his chest…
may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone
from “maggie and milly and molly and may” by e.e. cummings
The other day, I wrote a poem (a very mediocre, and maybe even bad poem) for the first time in a…
“I was going through Papa’s papers and I found some poetry he’d written,” Mom tells me over the phone.
“Oh, I didn’t know Papa wrote poetry,” I respond, curious.
“Me neither,” she says. “I just have to warn you, some of it is pretty dark, so I don’t want you…
My mom was all about healthy snacks but knew enough about branding not to call them “healthy snacks” so she’d just ask if we wanted “something to eat.”
A lot of our household items felt either like sentimental family heirlooms or like timeless, origin-less utilitarian practicalities that had always been…
I go back to my room in my parents’ house and on the bed my mom has laid out a set of dance belts — tiny beige thongs I had to wear under my ballet tights as a kid, designed to support my curious and newly sentient genitals.
My fingers are a dune buggy race down the endless sands of your back, and then they’re a squadron of submarines descending through the uncharted depths of your hair to your very top’s very bottom.
And after so many years mapping your body and its complex topographies, I spy a…
Remembering you is like
the time I went to the mansion of a widow who, until the day she died, kept building and building and building additions to her massive pathological hideaway, like a door that opens to a twenty-foot drop or a stairway directly into a ceiling. …
Whenever my friend goes on a first date he texts me
I’m going to marry this girl
just so he’ll have the receipts in case he’s ever right. And I think about all the different times, in all the different relationships, that I thought the same.
Like when I got…
I’ve always thought I’m good at endings.
Like this one:
I asked, “When you told your friends you don’t love me anymore, how did they feel?”
And you said, “Not surprised.”
Or this one:
I spy your silhouette in the sunset and you’re either 91 million miles away or just…
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