Leia Penina Wilson


apostrophe 23.

6000 k is hot enough to burn up anything you can imagine.







apostrophe 24.

may i kiss you.

star a has a magnitude of 6.2. star b's magnitude is 11.2. which is brighter.




dislocated shoulder. no immediate signs of psychological trauma or hypertension. appendix removed. operating above plot (fuck your plot). last thoughts before taken away by temporary unconsciousness: green is not a common color in butterflies. better to make perfume into a woman than wilting a scream out of green. can you imagine all the things that come from green. they're mostly contagious and gooey. slime is green.

all the rules say if you step out of line: you die.





there's gravitational squeezing. if that were the only thing going on eventually it would compact into a black hole. we don't ask why it happens. we just know it happens. it has to be distilled under a vacuum. no. no it doesn't outright explode. it just decomposes.

holding hands: a question.







apostrophe 25.

if it were him he'd have the acrylic column replaced with glass. it had worked in years past until they tried to do things with it. nobody realized the goals were attainable—they certainly didn't: he wanted to take cubane samples and heat them. a clear vision requires a chemical understanding of the process rather than the molecule.



revolutionary freedom must be won at the subject's expense: she feared for her ability to communicate—


he was well educated had a very stable home a professional life and never struggled to be accepted except as a teen. he never thought twice about distance or death.
she doesn't know anything about processes/molecules/or about piggy backing off the nervous system of beetles in order to control their movements. movements decrease the anxiety of time—



choosing a subject means telling what she's afraid of/twice.


the author once remarked on fear. she said—and i do not pretend to quote—stay with me stay only with me. stay with me and the prompt will be about recognizing where the road will take us in autumn.

i want every autumn to be with you.








apostrophe 26.

the controlling principle is the gesture—
this is how a star works: in the distance there is light.







apostrophe 27.

is there any security from loneliness. they politely cling to one another politely apologize politely touch.





the people say in the end everybody is lonely—but they don't tell you why or even how or for how long. how long the human heart can endure.

i've never been lonely before now. what a strange beast.







apostrophe 28.

i've often imagined what a cloud sounds like when it is stretching.


the physical difference between accent shifting and authenticity.

having coffee means what.


everything we've talked about so far is how the stars appear to us. we bring out an anthology to prove the literature exists and we limit the magnitude. there's always more detail but women in the academy are taught to be intellectually men. this is why the entire electromagnetic spectrum is put out by the stars: we turn data into brightness where 7 is more than 3.

any two numbers will always be separated by five or 15. that's why you have to bring it closer. a unit of distance is referring to how far light travels in a year.




she glued peacock feathers to her hair took off all her clothes clutched more feathers in her hands and danced around the living room being a bird. she didn't know anything about birds only what she'd read in poems. she didn't know that birds were made of air. their frames only the suggestion of form. she hadn't undergone any of the training to be a bird but thought she could shock her body into it. thought there'd be some sort of ancient genetic memory that would allow her to move as close to the horizon as possible would allow her to disappear above the tree lines would allow her to cover more distance would allow her.







apostrophe 29.

i saw a rabbit die yesterday. i think it must've been hit by a car. it was still alive enough to crawl. if she had had elbows the tiny torn thing would have used those. instead she wrenched one front leg in front of another mangled one. oh what a dirty dish towel. one dirty paw in front of the other but not enough not enough ground gained to continue being rabbit.

it wasn't as scary as i had imagined only louder.







apostrophe 30.

unable to find you.

unable to find you.

unable to find you. unable to find a certificate to log you into the network. network error. hard drive error. error: data may be lost. error: please restart your computer.






if you go around the corner to the vending machines you'll find the help you need. the one to the left has those little chocolate pies.




just remember: the theory is that stars are basically giant furnaces.


banach: early 20th century theorist—dealt with managing the multitudes inside closely guarded fortresses and what to do when those fortresses fall.




what kind of sound am i invoking from the instrument?




I had a Prof in undergrad who taught me that distance is measured in terms of light. How awesome is that? Really. And also, as I began to think of the stars and constellations as people, how sad. I imagined every glimmer up there to be a letter, every letter written by Keats. How can something so beautiful exist in the absence of everything else—I don't know. By the end of the semester I couldn't chart a star's orbit or determine the mass of asteroids to save anybody's life. But it's amazing despite my inability to do math, right? That what we might be seeing when we look up into a clear night is the last wish of a star their last glimmer the dying cries of something at once celestial and, literally, made of dust.