The intern’s wand assayed your abdomen with wavelengths sounding the nocturnal pool she swam within pale cave dweller tipped down to pass between existences asleep forehead globed beneath her body’s question There she is Everything’s okay except the blood a sudden flux enriched your gown tear in the placental wall Nothing wrong the intern said …
The men and women of the Causon Creek Church of God with Signs Following were expecting families from congregations all over the South to attend their annual homecoming services, some from hundreds of miles away. Most would cross the Tennessee border from North Carolina, Virginia, and Kentucky, though a few were coming from states…
There’s our son at the end of my hook riding over the Detroit River where Tecumseh’s still rowing towards his oblivion. This boy we’re casting to the land of the leaping frogs. My lass lives on the floor where the fish are frying, her spine snapped in half the way…
Clashing paper umbrellas of red and orange. The fur of the moth’s eye- spot centered: wind shakes the poppy, and the poppy shakes the head of the pod shapely as Egyptian skull, bone-dry. Spliced spore, sap and milk: tiny black seeds seamed inside; like the pocket walls’ little wooden veins holding the paper umbrellas up….
A section of the newspaper, rolled into a tight cone and flaming at the top, stuck out of the cook’s ear the first time I saw him. This was early June, in Corpus Christi, Texas, when I was sixteen and had been hired as the delivery driver for La Cocina Mexican Restaurant. The cook was…
Put your pain on one side, it is unwelcome tonight, we have guests, dinner is to be served, the pain must wait. I am sorry, do not be angry, do not hate, put your pain away for a more convenient day. The telephone rang with need, your hurt was huge, it was not unrecognized, but…
You are never what you seem. Like barbeque, you tell me time doesn’t matter, that all things wait. You take long as it takes. Wife to worry, you can sit forever, stewing, grown angrier by the hour. Like ribs you are better the day after, when all is forgiven. Death’s daughter, you are often cross—bitter…
She was in her early twenties, five or six years younger than me. She moved with a catlike suppleness through our dull office space (scratchy fabric of cubicle walls, coiled wires, the kitchen with its empty Pepsi cans assembled into a shaky pyramid for future recycling). She wore skirts—nobody in our office wore skirts—short, flared…
I turned sixty in Paris last year. We stayed at the Lutetia, where the Gestapo headquartered during the war, my wife, two boys, and me, and several old Vietnamese ladies carrying poodles with diamond collars. Once my father caught a man stealing cigarettes out of one of his vending machines. He didn’t stop choking him…
No products in the cart.