Chloe Tsolakoglou

Updated: Feb 1


the roses are named

neon cowboy, dancing flame

and I say

Did you know bees sleep in the crux?

tj is so beautiful now,

measuring their aloneness across

the thicket—

we are pining for the return

of a thing that looks like home:

their green eye births thorns,

my outstretched arms like stamens—

our garden is waning and sometimes

i discern a closeness.

now, november


on the kitchen table is my grief,

a kind of limp animal

stillness tempts my hands

but I have yet to

draw a simple conclusion—

there, the beaming sternum

almost transparent

i enter its supple and

suddenly feel very embarrassed;

the oblique realization

of living, having lived

How does one make absence


when I crush the red seed

language stops—

magnolias shed too much

of themselves in the fall.


absence follows grief

and blackberry bushes

mangle the skin, purple

undulating and becoming

a delta at the river

of my wrist

i eat madly, hastily—

stuff the berries in

my shallow pockets

things seem to have purpose

when consumed;

the echo of summer

is cloaked in loss.

Chloe Tsolakoglou is a Greek-American writer who grew up in Athens, Greece. She obtained her MFA from the Jack Kerouac School, where she served as the Anselm Hollo Fellow.

Recent Posts

See All

Grant Souders

COMEAROUND The bear now. Instead of what is what. One might come to expect. To expect is, being central to our view, bobbling the ball and not in fang, the bear Sinks a paw into the buoyant and isolat