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…even if all the animals are oracles, I don’t want to have a bee under my pillow, even if it’s just a sign of the druidic image of community, even if it signifies the solar dance of the bee replicating the hive of the many in the streets or the village, signified clairvoyants of ultraviolet…
Her family moved to town from Omaha on Christmas Eve. Her father and mother are the new managers of the Sherman Ice Arena, which, thanks to the coal-baron millionaire who owns it, is open all year. It is mid-January now, skating season. Half the town goes to the public skate on Saturday afternoon, the experience…
Greet the walker, walking in with the shadow of the hood shooing away the emphatic light. First cold night the blinds flicker down, each vinyl strip a white notion near as wide. August, gone, feels gone. The woman in another room, ever without honeymoon, hits snooze and spreads her hair behind her like the patch…
and I keep in touch with you’re pissing me off you’re pushing my buttons I’m not interested in rescheduling Listen! Do you hear that? That’s my tongue licking a laceration, a bloody metacarpal, a fracture; that’s my nasal baritone, my UUUUUU unfurling your foothold. Wolves keep in touch, and I with my keen sense sense…
Rusty Bickers went walking through the fields at dusk, Rusty Bickers with a sadness and nobility that only Joseph could see. Joseph dreamed of Rusty Bickers at the kitchen table, eating Captain Crunch cereal before bedtime, his head low, lost in thought; Rusty Bickers, silent but awake beneath the blankets on his cot, his hands…
A blackish hue clustered at our heels. You were in the mixed woods which meant I was in the same mixed woods. I kicked up the floor. Needles littered the lower air in standing dust, our shadows dotting the dirt mound sloped unnecessarily away. I peeled back in drying nut husks, upturned trunks of living…
They are big fans of horror film. In the fading light of a November afternoon, The gray surface of a pond Looks like a movie screen to them. The moving branches reflected in it Are like the fingers of the blind Groping to touch the face of someone Who’s been calling out to them In…
I’m driving my aunt Sarah’s Lexus, taking us to the meat place. We pass farms with pastures full of Holsteins and green trees. Weeds fill the ditches. Beyond, in the woods, are deer, raccoons, and skunks. Sometimes, driving on the road, I see them try to cross. Sometimes I see a carcass. I used to…
for all the horses I didn’t get to ride the years of my girlhood in Montana. I wasn’t Terry Jo, the last child and only daughter of a rancher whose spread lay deep in the sheepland steppe, forty miles south of our little town. Terry Jo, whose mother, like all the ranchers’ wives, moved to…
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