By Kodi Li
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mentions of cigarettes
old gum nesting in the belly of our shared desk in third grade your fountain pen with its copper filigree cap (I borrowed and broke) the first B I received in my reports Mom’s citrus-flavored cigarette, the silence, thin and glaring my Father page forty-six, the three lines of dialogue your characters said so you don’t have to which you deleted now unopened condom in my left pocket at the end of our date late summer night we shivered under a single’s quilted blanket stars reeling overhead, sycamore trees
Kodi is a Seattle transplant. They conquer SAD each rainy season with the power of cat (and friendship). They studied Multimedia Content Creation in college and began writing fiction in English during the 2019 pandemic lockdown, now they are working towards an MFA degree in Creative Writing. Currently they are procrastinating on writing their thesis novel and an itty-bitty pixel game about ghosts and cats. Their artwork has been published on LandEscape. Their upcoming poetry “Deciduous Trees” can be found on Moist Poetry Journal. You can find them @kodilinz.com.
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