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There's kind of sky below the ocean— a field of starfish, turning slowly like cogs inside a water-watch, wound by a sea river; the star's five fingers tremble and reach for a clam's book of meat, into which it will inject a sedative and then its stomach. In The City, escaped parrots colonize a hilltop…
Steal your sister's presents. Swallow pieces, ride her bike, ride it far into the grove. Show her you've discovered all her holy spots and watch her try to find another, deeper forest: everything she's kept from you is yours now: these frilly private things, this tiny book of screams.
The train departs at dusk from New York the neon signs begin to bleed their letters the light goes into the buildings that pass like so much else that I notice and forget and don't notice and remember like the specific places where litter ends up and the last patches of snow and the iron…
Dad pays him to teach me the boy thought as the old man watched from behind jib— The cool burnt cherry from his pipe sweetened the ocean smell, its spoilage and cure of brine. On tack or coming about, the man was practical, oracular: Weight the gunwale on close hauls. Don't luff. He read out…
My sister and I are fighting as always in dreams, our faces an inch apart. She's angry because I'm fat, and I because she speaks what I already know without kindness. On the counter: carving knives and platters (perhaps Mother's) (perhaps Mother's dead in the cabinet) and these distract us—what should we do? Don't pick…
Eight or nine cars, lights off, motors running, in the dark school parking lot waiting for an overdue bus. Each unexpectedly alone with the undersides of the day's thoughts, and the long shadows cast by words; intruding upon them one thought, unwelcome, insistent, cyclical as the flashing numerals on the dashboard clock, which keeps returning…
On the bus from Nashville to Lonoke, Arkansas, Jim Yankee Fish sits in back, in the star suite, with Bones, the bass player, while the star is up front doing business. The young and old singers all call Fish "Yank" when they see him in bars or on the road. Yank, they whisper, and he…
The gray is terminal this time of year. The tourists cleared out months ago, leaving us islanders to find one another in the barren streets, exchange pleasantries, then wander home. I drive into Vineyardhaven for my morning cup of jumpstart while the ferry's moan pushes through air that is damp lint. Somnambulent, the winter months…
I don't know if I was awake or asleep; my eyes were open— the feeling you have as a child after your parents look in on you, before they leave for an hour or so thinking you are asleep, but you are not asleep. You hear their whispers on the stair, the door closing softly,…
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