When we say love we say burning, and cooling, and even if the cat snores at the foot of our bed, we are still lying in that bed we made, together and together and together, until death do us part, or divorce, whichever comes first; maybe we still say love, and maybe it’s from afar, very afar, and maybe you only text when you need an old document from me, one I haven’t held in years, or maybe we just want to check on the children, grown, or on the old cat who may now be dying. Hemingway told one of his wives—really, he had too many—to remember to take care of the cat. That’s why so many six-toed furballs roam his estate in Key West, pissing upon the pool deck’s embedded last penny, but only occasionally—very occasionally, like love—to season the cement.
is a queer multigenre writer, editor, educator and podcaster currently based in Las Vegas, Nevada. She holds an MA (2013) in English (Literature) from Eastern Washington University and an MFA (2017) in Creative Writing (Fiction) from University of Nevada, Reno at Lake Tahoe. She serves as editor-in-chief of CRAFT Literary Magazine and editorial director for Discover New Art. Find her on Instagram [at]CourtneyHarler.
