By Jillian Prendergast
I believe in my words.
In the brevity of whispers through pen
Like tiny stars inside of a cold blue night.
Like noticing divine emptiness in small things.
Navel-gazing offers sweet forgiveness.
All is well.
All is hell.
All is holy.
It all comes back to eating olives
in front of an open fridge.
Jillian has spent the last decade traveling, working in the outdoors, writing, and composting the days into what she hopes will be something of benefit. She resides in New Mexico where she studies poetry and prose with the deeply gifted people of the high desert who have welcomed her in. She earned her grit through community colleges near mountains and rivers, and her love of vintage treasure from the cities that bordered them. She is her best on the road, camped out under the stars, or surrounded by good people, and will forever strive to passionately protest mediocrity. She has been published in Elephant Journal, Folk Rebellion, Sivana East, and The Santa Fe Literary Review.