The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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Jessica Max Stein writes poetry and grows tomatoes in Brooklyn, New York.
I was fucking a near stranger in northeast Chicago when my mother died. His name was Jonathan. He was tall, long-limbed with enormous hands and prematurely gray hair, an activist who lectured on “the struggle” so genuinely I almost believed him: that we would win this, whoever “we” were, whatever it was.