Pool balls clacked in the distance.
Somebody was yelling about the wrong kind of IPA.
"Most of the experiences or settings I’m exploring in my poetry are intentionally super mundane or banal; I’m not trying to make a spectacle of any sort of experience or setting."
The bartender grunted—either in agreement or indigestion.
Overhead, a fan spins slow circles, stirring the ghosts of last call.
"My poetry is so connected to my personal identity in a way that’s almost diaristic; It’s dealing with motifs, ideas, and thoughts of everyday life given that specific period of time."
Somewhere, a couple breaks up over darts.
Quiet, but sharp. She doesn’t flinch.
Someone lights a cigarette behind me.
It smells like menthol and lost weekends.
"I’m such a curious person. I’m just trying to understand things, and this is my way of understanding or exploring certain ideas or narratives and seeing what comes of it. I feel like I don’t have the answers to anything, but just trying to work them out is the answer itself."
She grins into her glass, like maybe that’s the point.