My mother was a Cinderella and a Cinderella never rescued by a godmother’s spell: part sophisticated lady; part hoary headed char-woman of bitter Texas winters whose ax could free the water frozen beneath the stock trough ice. In all kinds of weather, my brunette sister was a lonely, zaftig sweetheart. When first told one of…
The middle of the river closed The main channel of navigation From mouth all the way to the island there You see the light between Fishing boats we call the channel the real thing We’re deciding It’s a point of commerce and pride to be Nobody argued with respect to the…
From this point forward, Regina would bow to the gods of arbitrariness, kneel to whim, capitulate to kismet. From this point: after years (two to seven, depending how you calculated their separations) of not being sure if he wanted to be married, teetering on the fence for so long it seemed he was stuck…
Of nearness to her sundered Things* A coral necklace, white, with a gold clasp. We had always thought coral was pink, but no, this coral is the color of egg shells. The beads are round, like pearls, and in size grow from the size of a pea to twice that where they must have hung…
Holding bread crust up to my lips, I watch a crow hop past its black feathered anchor into just a bit of atmosphere. My cat lunges into a rhododendron bush, another January mouse pushed out of earth. Disemboweled, its whiskered head will be left behind like a misplaced chess piece or bodiless, a perfect…
In the end, the end seems probable, but before come many votes and murders. The common redstart votes for its own splendor among the other splendid things; the virgin murders her own abashed vocabulary, pretending to a toughness she does not as yet possess. Possess she will, in time, a rude demeanor…
J. M. W. Turner’s “Slavers Throwing Overboard the Dead and Dying, Typhoon Coming On” (1840) How it is That up is known Here, outstretched umber hands Punch through An ocean’s concave mirror from Death’s inverse Universe —But that’s Not in this view That Wasn’t me We say now To the flame-shaped…
What’s it like now to be shot in the foot by yourself, when you were aiming elsewhere and didn’t want any kind of trouble? How else could you frustrate yourself more, what with your foot oozing blood, and the gun smoke clouding the air so you can’t think, and that bird you wanted…
This is the small hill Landscape of the middle country I love and I am on it stumbling down in high heels This is the last evening No light in the squandered wood The gentleman farmer still awake His back to my back Verdant in blackness is a twinkling Is a wet streamlike thing…
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