I call my twin to retell me my life. I am a sieve. My arms and fingers feel like water and my throat doesn’t feel like flesh. It feels like brass at its resonant frequency. Words are sounding. Nothing penetrates. It’s not that my eyes are glazed over it’s that it feels like life glazes over me. It rolls across my browbone and the sensation is vanished. I am the sound of the words. I am not the body digesting soup or grounded to the wooden chair by gravity. Convinced of its insubstantiality. I am the voice that wavers in air.


Kate Millar is a 22-year-old poet from Edinburgh, Scotland. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at The New School in New York City. She was the Principal’s Scholar and Lawson Memorial Prize winner at The University of St Andrews for her studies in English literature. Her writing has appeared in A New Ulster and Lucent Dreaming.