Because I could be written anywhere, I loved the hard surface of the blade, my name carved into barn doors, desktops, the peeled face of a shag-bark hickory. I pressed my whole weight into it, letters grooved deep as the empty field rows along Tri-Lakes where I’d seen my cousin Nick buried in ground so…
Every once in a while, it’s true: I get sick of dying. Iambic ghosts choiring their lovely, churchless songs, All the lines of the poem leaning toward terminus Like rows of low windbent weeds— …
They mouthed the surface of the creek for nymphs tasting their temporary life or striders sculling the tension that was neither water nor air but border, merely. The way a dream nibbles at awareness, the sunnies dared the surface. From the footbridge I saw them school in the little depth below the watercolor that was…
I see the lion as the lion sees the girl he slowly devours in a silent film— a flash of sun-torn flesh— before the vision fades. How foolish she was to wander the woods alone, forgetting the warnings, the memory she had of herself before the woods became a thought from which the lion leapt,…
Tommy, when he was alive and could speak clearly without spit gathering in a big drip at his chin, would kiss Dee’s nose and warn her not to waste her time trying to figure it out, why it was so big. “Just love the nose,” Tommy’d say. “Love it and love the lips the same….
Alright, I’ll tell you the weirdo dream I had, but before I unwind that yarn, let’s twist our common thread. Like you, I stare plumb through the wall sometimes, because I’m thinking of a tree and a little tenant house beside it, and you-know-who on the stone step watching as I pretend I’m a butterfly…
rain frog thorn bug tent bat along a broken mosaic a spongy ever-dwindling path soaring trees woody buttresses their massive twisted fins lofty crowns shoulder to shoulder climbing lime-green vines restless palms one…
for Memory and Oxford “Apart from her roles as wife and mother, Doris did not play a large part in the stories of Greek mythology.” —anonymous online source She was a type, all right, an Okie from her daddy’s side, when she met Nereus, maybe even a little flashy looking, the bright…
after James Agee that couple on the road could no more slow their hearts, slough their fear than could you doff your privilege, un- lace the corset of skin that cuts you to the quick so here you are in the thick of it the sun-bleached air the hard-scrabble beauty of…
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