Porco cane! Another day breaks with a gunshot and a chorus of yelping bloodhounds after boar. I ache to join in, but stay quiet, loyal dog-pig that I am. Pig-dog. Purebred cur in a pen: Sono io. The hunt’s trained out of me. Bark and growl, the baser instincts, I renounced them long ago. My…
Frederick II of Hohenstaufen, The Art of Falconry 1. Of the oil gland . . . Of the down . . . Of the numbers and arrangement of feathers in the wing . . . I have seen on the plains of Apulia how the birds in earliest spring were weak and scarcely able to…
“There is science, logic, reason; there is thought verified by experience. And then there is California.” —Edward Abbey The horizon gutted, skinned, unfurled and dried like a diamondback, no secrets, no secret sea cave stash, so evident it all seems invisible: fissures in the orange San Andreas, smoking asphalt on a runaway go-cart, 100% clear…
She is standing in the doorway of the barn loft, swaying backwards and forwards. Both her hands are over her head and flat against the inside of the lintel; her heels come off the floor on her forward motion, and she keeps her toes down on her backward motion, curling them around the rough…
I stood on Mr. Silvia’s porch with my last thirty-six dollars rolled in a rubber band tucked between breast and belly fat. I remembered the house from when I was a kid. Back then it was a gap-toothed barn where we played while birds flew in and out above us. Now it was a…
what it was without growing old a fever a checkup the cold front dragging a rake a plow Pain thinks of something biography a place a word clearing & threshing snow & leaves opening the hour without growing old what it was Pain thinks of something arthritis blindness colloquy of field & figure light what…
Because we wanted things the way they were in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver raising ripples in a vee behind his head the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed, or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose…
Drunk off his can and pissed at the ruse of another day, backache a bum rap and woodpile shrunk to kindling, the old man stood at the kitchen sink and stared out at his neighbor’s cow. What a filthy beast, he thought. What a stinking, cud-chewing, gas-spewing waste of a field. And then, because what…
after Lena Cronqvist Whose girls are these, Lena, yours, mine, ours, everyone’s? So many deny them (Oh, no, not more of those!) Often your sister Sometimes another girl Always your parents (For me dark is normal) Is it conceivable your parents or my own actually could have done anything deserving of how the girls treat…
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