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Fall/Winter 2017

Aimee Herman


Origami the front page of The New York Times into an airplane. Watch words, carefully cropped photographs, and haunted headlines swoop into the air as you allow the trauma of the world to fly away from you. Inhale and exhale every yoga position you’ve studied. Remember that just waking up is enough to feel like you’ve accomplished something today. Give your mouth permission to shape itself into whatever way it wants; smiles are always optional. Stop when you need to and if you only get past your stoop, that’s OK. Give your body a standing ovation because organs and skin never receive the recognition they deserve. You will get lost; you will eat something that will cause your belly to renounce itself; you will want to hide; want to climb your way toward an unbothered planet; that’s OK. Listen to the music playing. Your lungs. The trees. Your hair humming against ears. A cardinal calming you toward one more block. Your teeth settling in to themselves. That woman saying, bless you. Litter like wind chimes against pavement.  

Aimee Herman is a queer writer and teacher based in Brooklyn with two full length books of poetry, most recently meant to wake up feeling (great weather for MEDIA). Aimee is also a singer and ukelele player in the poetryband Hydrogen Junkbox. For more, go to


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