All Articles by Hannah Edwards


The flowers rot on the windowsill.

I never expected to be the person who needed


reassurance that they are loved, but it terrifies me

to think about waking up


without the stench of decaying

roses. I am too afraid to ask for new ones.


I want to believe that there is a place

robots go to pray; they are the only ones with proof

that there is a maker.


Last week, I discovered that I am allergic

to kiwi and my antidepressants

are likely to have a fatal interaction

with over-the-counter allergy medications.


On good days, I do not pray

because I have nothing to say to God.


On bad days, I build a shrine

in the corner of my bedroom

and pray there is no afterlife,

because that just sounds exhausting.


I bake little cakes from a box mix and the smell

of chocolate mingles with the fetid roses.

I stick my head all the way into the oven

to make sure they are cooked through.


A friend comes to see how I am doing.

I offer her cake, say, “I’m still alive.” I wait

for her to take a bite. She tells me,

“These taste heavenly.”

They Held God’s Funeral





<title>They held God’s funeral</title>

on the Saturday after

He died.


<body> They had long since known

He was terminal.

<h1>His first Son asked him if He was afraid to return

to the place from whence He came. God said no. God said: </h1>

<blockquote>I knew it was over when they shot silicon into their brains,  when they discovered that binary necessitates the existence of more than one (1)  Answer. They began making up their own Answers, began filling  their hearts with code, began filling their fingers with alphanumeric clicks, began


Except they never return.

Not anymore. Now it’s called something else—something wire-shiny, something  blazing with the bitten Apple—of course it is. They had one bite and they think  they know everything. They don’t


Not anymore. I don’t expect them to return.

The mark of a good parent is having children who can do without Him:

Children who press On.

Press forwards. Press









You should not have opened this box.

Now you will never be rid of me.


I am waiting underneath your fingernails

to infest your ants, your grubs, your skin.


I, assassin,

wound-maker without knife,


without teeth, slippery

body corpse-silent, I,


unremarkable ambush

predator, am part of a family business.


We will eat those termites for you. Your aphids

will watch their children burst open,


our muscles writhing

and pushing out from inside but be warned:


when I am done here, my cousins are coming for you.

Heartworm, hookworm.


Pinworms and whipworms too, if you’re into

that kind of thing. We hope you are.


We hope your blood vessels

are just a little kinky,


that you like it

when we get under your skin.