Steak and Potato
by Marin Kosut

I was born to vegetate. As a juvenile, I’d stare at my blank bedroom wall. I’d stare out at the driveway. Not even the sky or the ceiling. I’d lay on my bed looking down at the middle of my body and stay outside myself inside the house. I wrinkled with time on top of my sheets. Sometimes, admittedly, I flipped through the Pennysaver. I didn’t know nothing, but I wasn’t totally rotten. 

Puce
by Marin Kosut

At four, I wore a fringed black dress formerly owned by a go-go dancer who worked at my grandmother’s bar. There’s a photo of me in the dress smirking in the driveway of my family’s ranch-burger house, eyes behind bangs, sweeping the fringe forward like liquid through my hands. I liked how the strands split apart and landed back into place.