The bitten lip of the moon spills over the clouds.

The bitten lip of the moon spills over the clouds.
Every beer is drunk down. Every blackout ends with morning.
When I do bad things, I want to brag about them. I want you to know how far I went.
What wealth the tide leaves behind, only to take it again.
~ Monica Wendel: Brooklyn, New York | The Brooklyner

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About Monica Wendel

View all by Monica Wendel
Monica Wendel
Monica Wendel is the author of the chapbook Call it a Window, forthcoming from Midwest Writing Center Press. She holds an MFA in creative writing from NYU and is a visiting instructor of composition at St. Thomas Aquinas College. A recipient of Goldwater and Starworks teaching fellowships, she has taught creative writing at Goldwater Hospital, St. Mary's Healthcare Center for Kids, and NYU. Follow her @monicaewendel.

Working Days Off

You are easy unlike each little trauma of my workaday waking.

The Version In Which Little Red Riding Hood’s Hooves Are Singed

We seemed to be turning to clever
pleasure, which felt nearly as good as

This Romance

I acknowledge a superior tone
and chase flies across the room

And God Help You

My chores were piling up and I was behind on my school reports so I kneeled next to my bed as I’d seen kids do on TV and I prayed.

In the Closet

A long time ago, I came out of the closet. It was uncomfortable. My grandmother’s apartment spun in summer breezes so hot, crossing her living room was like trudging through moss.


Arn and Gina recognized the waitress with the large hoop earrings although they didn’t engage in personal greetings as they plumped down on the leather sofa in front of the fireplace at the Old Fisherman Inn.