When I gave up praying, an $800 windfall arrived in the mail and no longer did I brew my tears into a bitter tea that paid the bills. Though it turned out to be surplus in the escrow account, once I’d have chalked it up to God—that unexpected check a biscuit for the trick…
The whale was real. So was the beach, carsick & damp in the armpits as I was. Father’s shaggy hunk of leg against my young flank. The crowd on the shoulder of the road watching the crowd smoke around the whale I mistook for a stranded barrel. Did it outswell the ocean with breathing, was…
This condition is not like hoarding for winter. There may be no torpor here, no feast, either. I see a fox, petrified in bog water. I envy the gall wasp, its egg a pincushion on the oak leaf. This disruption will likely stay unnamed. I call it faceful of dove. I call it…
Please don’t ever ask me to do it—to run through the plot points A, B, C, and D, as Peter Brooks discusses in his famous book of the same name. My mind is allergic to chronology. Do you feel the unquenchable thirst for plot that Brooks describes? OK, then, here’s a plot for you: last…
On the television the boy is watching Charlotte’s Web & it is near the beginning where the whole family is sitting down to eat & we are made to see the farmer’s breakfast—a stack of pancakes, golden brown & towering—& the boy becomes caught in this moment. He will watch the movie it feels…
Why not let my daughters toss rocks over the shed while birds bicker and dart through my wraparound mood? The girls remind me that wonderful means “full of wonder,” and that no tech company will ever simulate what’s happening in my nerves right now— the swig from a flask …
Ending on a line by Jack Gilbert Want is still the center of all living shapes, my daughter included. She’s gnawed off her dead ends and scratched her throat into a ragged line graph. It doesn’t work to tell her five plus five, if you use both hands, can be a…
There are two piles of documents: the one on the right has to become the one on the left. There is a paperweight in the shape of a whale. Some pages have almost nothing on them, maybe eight words floating in eggshell space. They have to be read too, so I do, I…
“…they camped at eventide by the River of Forgetfulness, whose waters no vessel can contain…and each one as he drank forgot all things.” – Plato, Republic Imagine you are weary. Imagine you have carried the heft of skeletons for years. Imagine the day you fear death less than living long. Imagine…
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