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.

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