Pastry chef by day, insomniac writer by night.
Find here: stories that creep up on you, poems to stumble over, and the weird words I hold them in.
Or, let me catch you at www.suzekay.com
It's a sunset so pink you'd be forgiven for thinking summer never left you stranded on this seashore. Nevermind it's November and your nose is numb,
By Suze Kay2 months ago in Poets
generated new a forest only meant to be a forest in bumps and trunks a water vast enough to remember
All through the long funnel of the valley we channel the children, delighting in their legs more plump than deer. Where have they come from? Not here,
is also lost. He stumbles on an english garden, likes the ramble rose. He also likes that darker bloom of gun smoke in his name. He damns a woman who killed
By Suze Kay8 months ago in Poets
I spend that last night in my house running my fingers over all the things I will miss, already miss. The silken chill of my granite countertops. The stained glass picture window leaking streetlight over the leather couch, scarred and softened by a decade of cozy evenings. The newel post at the base of the stairs, the initials we carved under its lip on the day we moved in. And up the stairs-
By Suze Kay9 months ago in Fiction
The Starlink array arcing over my slice of night is also a freight train of light, is also a string of pearls, is also the end of the sky as I know it –
By Suze Kay9 months ago in Poets
Marcus clattered the last of the dinner dishes into the sink. He winced, paused with an ear turned to the dark hallway. He heaved a grateful sigh when he heard no sign of George stirring. But behind him, Justina continued rocketing around the kitchen, pulling open drawers and cupboards, riffling through the fridge.
By Suze Kay9 months ago in Longevity
March roared himself out in a thunderstorm last night, very flashy and now April creeps in bashful, asking if it's her turn on the wheel yet.
By Suze Kay10 months ago in Poets
house with storm shutters and dead lawn no one watered while I was gone it seems I’m the last person on earth who wants to have a beer with me
Things so rarely go to plan. The string of colored light loses to a loose bulb, the roast burns black, gifts falter against the strength of my want. I think the last time
By Suze Kayabout a year ago in Poets
I call my friend to ask if he’s read the news. He’s on a diet, he says. He only consumes that which nourishes his soul. He fears a rot
Rabbit offers his only wisdom: Fuck fast, fuck often. Do it in an open field, do it in the haybarn and run, run, run away.
