by Claire Scott

memories erased,
deleted, dressed in
moth dust

did it happen if
you don’t remember
the tree falling

the faceless hands
haunting

the midnight hands
insisting

only blind stones
in late dog light
looking for a white

way back to claim
what belongs to you

if you really want
to know what lies
crouching in the corner

by Mika Altidor

You best not go into the kitchen.
There’s a lion in there.
What kind of idiot gets killed by a lion in her own kitchen?
You can press your ear against the door and hear it growling
Don’t listen too long though
It’ll know you’re there
It’ll smell your fear
And come after you
What kind of idiot gets killed by a lion in her own hallway?
It’s really best you just sneak away now
Don’t step too loudly though,
It’ll hear you
And sink its teeth into your neck
What kind of idiot gets killed by a lion in her own house?
Ah, well now you’ve done it, haven’t you?
Don’t scream incoherently like that
Don’t cry out for help
Don’t fight too hard, it’s just a lion doing what it knows to
Really it’s worse if you fight back at all
Why not just give in?
Who would help the kind of idiot keeps a lion in her kitchen anyways?
You really shouldn’t have kept it there
It’s all your fault that it got so hungry
it’s all your fault
You must have known it was in there
You just have known it was a lion
What kind of an idiot are you?

by Mika Altidor

The worst thing about mornings is other people
When you were in High School you loved to wake up at 5-5:30
No one else around
No mother loudly making coffee and boring conversation
No siblings flagrantly stealing the lemon San Peligrinos that you bought with your own money and put 3 separate sticky notes on specifically stating that they were yours and that anyone who took one you would kill
Quiet
The sun rising
Slowly getting ready for the day
Leaving for the 7:30 bus at 7:05 to avoid any potential interactions with your loved ones
The worst part about mornings is other people
As an adult, barely, it’s not necessarily your family that fuck with your mornings
It’s the other people
The man whose ripped pants reveal the color of his boxers matching the color of his raincoat
The toddler with an iPhone refusing to let his mother turn the volume down on the video he’s watching
The man whose ripped pants reveal unfortunately his entire scrotum as he stands up desperately trying to cover himself hoping no one saw anything
The man walking off the number 4 bus at 9:02am on a Tuesday
Making brief eye contact as you wait to get on
He’s holding one arm up with the other
His hand is frostbitten
Fingers completely black, rigid, skeleton
The stop he’s getting off at is a residential neighborhood by a university, not a hospital
He looks away from you
He looks scared
Worse than that he looks your age
The worst thing about mornings is other people
And the fact you can’t change them
You can’t force a stranger to seek medical intervention or a tailor anymore than you can stop a sibling from stealing your food
At the very least though, you see these people again
You see your mom in the pajama dress you bought for her at the Portland Jetport in 2010
You see your siblings bicker and yell and eat breakfast together
You see men wearing appropriately unripped pants
Toddlers with headphones
And you see a man two weeks later walking off the number 4 bus at 8:58am on a Wednesday
He makes eye contact with you
His hand is professionally bandaged, fingers amputated
He looks at you and gives a polite half smile and nod as he steps off
He looks tired
Better than that he looks alive

by Mika Altidor

My wife’s last slippers, Oct. 29th 1841, aged 54
Source: anonymous donor/found in collection
Eleanor Foreman Brooks
Eleanore spelt 5 different ways
Foremen spelt 3 different ways
Including, unfortunately, your son’s death certificate that listed you as “Ellen Fairmen”
I hope you know that I am being gentle with your shoes
That your husband cared so much that he wrote three separate notes on them to mark how important they were, you were, to him
That your daughter kept your shoes
And so did her daughter
And so on until they ended up from Brattleboro Vermont to Portland Maine in the care of Westbrook College
Then later given, in 1993, to the Maine Historical Society
Then picked up by a historic clothing intern in the summer of 2025
I hope you know that I am being gentle as I measure the frayed silk laces
The worn toe box, the flaking leather
As I take pictures on my iPhone
Type a description on my computer
I hope you know that I am being gentle as I place inserts inside to prevent them from collapse
And gentle as I make a handling tray
And, I hope you know
I really do, please believe me
That I am being gentle as I flag them for de-accession
And write in the comment section
Shoes belonged to Vermont woman and do not have relevance to the Maine Historical Society”