I’m sorry little egg

Honky

madness

i don’t really believe you

i have to tell myself things or i’ll die

before rinsing off this lavender and chamomile hand soap

i refresh the application 

over and over

doing Tabata on the big screen

i want to burn burn lite the fuse watch the bloodgoup

Grace’s white jeans 

 what are these  miracles?

what does it mean for someone to be worth their salt

what does nadir mean in medical terms

i have a red speck on my right breast

in the same place as my mom

we are points on a line thru time

my name is Grace Gilbert and I am applying

for more miracles

It’s shorts season

and my body smells like seed oils

in the car 

slow emptying 

an eerie bump 

half of a song

will jazz and heaven 

extend beyond your death

i got my blood up 

It’s going to be dark out

i lay in coral pink 

sweatpants thinking about desire 

everyone’s screaming downstairs 

 wett 
is going on

Nick cave has a son named Jethro

i have a son named stephen 

he isn’t born yet

i just kissed a boy named stephen once

i have trouble letting things go

if things get weird will you hold me

i got this tufted throw pillow from the community thrift

i moved in all by myself and ate crackers on the floor

listened to the radio

 masturbated

there was a Pub down the street that looked like an invisible streetcar 

it was dark and there was a hula hoop outside 

once you got a Carbon ultra during the pandemic and we walked around trash alley

i don’t remember the name of the drink 

I was wearing your pullover 

if you don’t think i’m beautiful then why don’t you kill me

what purpose do i serve

revolution is so far away i hear it screaming 

closer and closer like the drone of the helicopter

reeling in its million dollar basketcase

with a hole in his head

or bad cancer

i want to actually fucking kill myself

but no one lets you say it

sometimes i write it to test if i’m free 

at bakery shifts i used to steal 

fever tree ginger beer

and a plate of macarons 

the $11 Majorska reminds me of my uncles

a room filled with nicotine and hamburger

trying to keep up

even corporate folk love Frank O’Hara

leave it to the New yoke times to write “scrappy” and “pugilistic”

we are all just trying to get by

the CEO’s dad was a volunteer firefighter 

now he’s a citywinner

who exists like that 

a single uno card

in the mesh pocket of a backpack

turned inward so we don’t know the next move 

today i overheard the HR person say A whipped dog will holler 

Then i took a plan B

Then we meditated to yoga with adriene 

Dreams

of headaches we can’t remember
the college girl used my bathroom

how neatly she folded the toilet paper
that she didn’t flush

I feel so old
taking my basal body temperature
taking nudes against the wood chip floor

bicycling hours into the night
we let the gum glass bugs feathers
eat away at our proximity in real time

on the web
the Christian girl’s baby is fucking giant
like a banner

Sex hurts
I was wooden
And you come when I hold you too close

I have a small cold window to nowhere
It gets you laughing
when you hit the truth

It’s too real

Higher still
And you moved the painting up the wall
We should eat probably
And then we ate

grace (ge) gilbert is a hybrid poet, essayist, and collage artist in Pittsburgh, PA. they are the author of Holly (YesYes Books 2025).