by Centaur Lit | Nov 2, 2025 | Fall 2025
Marcia Brady shows up at the yard sale I’m having—not a day over 16 with hip-length flat-ironed hair and a short plaid dress that nearly reveals her underpants. Hey, don’t get rid of that, she says, pointing to my vinyl collectible Marcia doll that never sold on...
by Centaur Lit | Nov 2, 2025 | Fall 2025
Never leave me at the gym. Never leave me at home. Never leave me on the Bolinas Ridge trail with the clouds from the Pacific rolling up over the green wall of coniferous trees. Don’t leave me in Markleeville in the cabin next to the stream with its water rushing over...
by Centaur Lit | Nov 2, 2025 | Fall 2025
Home is where Crumb Creek runs, the bones of bunnies buried across the bridge. Where the tulips vanished before I was born, stuffed animals wed and baby dolls nursed. A caterpillar squished under a toddler’s bare sole. It’s a ballerina’s silhouette above the mantle,...
by Centaur Lit | Nov 2, 2025 | Fall 2025
We girls were drawn to the river of yellow gold the bride wrapped in her milky arms, her blushed neck, her black hair. We watched her tread under the weight of yellow, our mouths big pink Os of envy. Our ribboned dresses paled next to her crimson silk qi-pao. Ah Ma...
by Centaur Lit | Nov 2, 2025 | Fall 2025
for the way she narrated stories of Krishna and Rama, for slow-chanting the Sanksrit shlokas so I could repeat after her, for soft-speaking to those inside the radio when I insisted we should say hello to them, for the way she dug the comb into my scalp, ran it down...
by Centaur Lit | Nov 2, 2025 | Fall 2025
Accrding to my thrapist I’m so mssd-up that I mispel and mismach, but I read three studis that prov parasocial relaships can fufil emotional needs in ways tat mirrr traditonal ways. TV keeps playin yur vlog—you, travel vlogger, strolling beteen rich lushness...