Kayla Czaga

  Another forty minutes in a stranger’s armpit, oh boy. How do you like avoiding eye contact with me, sir in neon windbreaker? Let’s stare at the logos mass embroidered into each other’s outerwear, listening to whatever podcasts or pop music the wires lift into our ears. So many public strangers whose voices we never…

  In grade three I was jealous of the boy who had an EpiPen, Aaron. With it, he could survive peanuts. Like a videogame egg it was hidden elsewhere to be uncovered during moments of kingdom crisis. In China, workers weave through fields pulling paintbrushes across crops for pollination, the bees gone, fallen onto sidewalks, a billion yellow blossoms…