We undress shy as a gun. * The mailman’s son, I am nor snow, nor night, nor gloom. * Her eyelashes long & false as an alarm. * He say, she say, foreplay, amscray. * Her cocktail dress pours over my bare floor. * Her feather boa hissing yes. * Without her I am incomplete—…
". . . moths hear sounds through their wings." "Moths require only three things to survive and breed: food, shade, and privacy." "Moths don’t eat wool . . . Only the larval form of the moths are wool eaters." There are over ten thousand five hundred identified species of moths in North America alone. When…
Call number: 305.235 G127t It is evening, crack Internet researcher, and you have fortified yourself. At the bodega. Your form is top, your liver is poisoned, you have steadied your frail nerves with the requisite malt liquor product. Ambrosia of the Gods! Sixty-four ounces of the fruit of the plains, the hop, and you are…
Slow drag— forest——otica A camera embedded in the eye of a butterfly’s hind wing captures gilded swans choking on cream. I can’t see the trees for the ugly irises. Like a honey thief flying at ground level, I gorge on the secret source of a runaway brook I have tied to a string. Night in…
First, her name was Jane, and if that wasn’t bad enough, one day, while she was sitting in the dining hall and drawing her trademark Jews—tiny cartoon men with beards and wisdom who decorated the edge of all her notebooks—the men got up off the page, shimmied down a table leg, and bused her…
It only wanted to say everything at once, it would pull the very moment out of reach, it blessed the muskrat among rusted reeds gliding ahead of the shimmering geese and goslings— it was in how their caliper wakes broadened out, how the pond then zippered shut, in all that surface, in all the glittering…
It was January, I’d hardly seen anyone for days, you understand. The sheep were all sitting separate and silent, a hard wind was coming in over the hill, a white moon floated. I’d bought the pumpkin for soup. My arms had dropped with the weight of it, dropped and come back, like the bounce back…
Although the virtuosity of her prose announces her as a serious author indeed, Amy Bloom is too sensible—and too funny—to get carried away with herself. A relative latecomer to the art, Bloom has written two acclaimed story collections, a novel, and a book of nonfiction essays; she contributes to top-drawer magazines, including The New Yorker,…
You’ve made me your horse, and I don’t mind. When you leave town at midnight, debts unpaid and a hard wind lifting the dust out of your hair, I’ll take up new habits: whistling, chewing my nails. Bank robbery’s not so bad when you think about it. Outside my window the pin oak hisses and…
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