scraping by Nicole Hospital-Medina writing all day is in the works for me. I shovel out large helpings of my brain, lay them on white, squish them into vernacular, scratch my itchy impulses to research. it’s the pulse of a co-dependency, ecstatic desire marked crookedly, an unwholesome connection being carried around like a skateboard, or a boxy, dated laptop. I stack my nerves on bones when I think of the others who write all day— the dead poets, the novelist who trims his beard, shedding scraps of wasted time. the odd woman in the attic, living in an 8 x 10 in. frame, sticking her pale mind to paper with order and intention. She licks the envelopes of her manuscripts, a wet towel with nothing to wipe. It’s cleaning a fish when I write, picking at people and voices, scraping out my ribs where it all waits.