about the author
Evan Iresmith is from Canada. In his youth, he may or may not have liked music made for kids with serotonin
problems. Evan recently got his “adult” card which became valid as soon as he forgot where he put it. He currently lives in New York City, like almost anybody.
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Private Speaking
Evan Iresmith
We fell for an idea of home. A
patch of gladioli, ravioli, woods.
Each window had a candle—plain,
then your electric. The den held
laptops, a kind of warmth. We don’t
disclose much, anymore. The amount
of sorrow we’ve avoided is directly
unrelated to our kneecaps, how they
touch in all the wrong ways—right?
I’m emptier than a new canteen. It’s
clinking in the back of your sedan, now.
And the song that was just on, it’s gone.