I should have taken her, she was the only thing I saw in Panama I wanted. —Mary Jane Megquier The girl had the aspect of the plantains she squatted over: chartreuse-bright and curious what would follow. “Compralos,” she said, rattling coins in her palm. There were no shadows but her obsidian hair. “Sell her to…
These thorny ferns are what Kama-pua‘a, the Pig God, looked like when he wished to disguise himself. When he took this form, he had no visible eyes but he could see, no nostrils but he could smell, no bristles but he could feel every sulfur wind that touched his reddish fronds. He looked exactly like…
Six months later Sandra was found Murdered in a ditch. Lying With the blood Leaves. Scattered dirt Of Oregon. Four of us fucking A cheap motel on The limes of Van Buren. Then we Switched. Sandra slips On the wet tile Floor. These flakes Melt…
Dear Larry: Looks like I won't need to borrow the car after all: the trip to L.A. is out of the question. I didn't know a life could break down like a chemical. Salt. Plutonium. The odorless noose of carbon monoxide. Up north a few years back, a group of kids committed mass suicide in…
That great acacia's not growing anymore, the rats are on the limbs, the heartwood diseased, the fallen leaves show rot has replaced the long-lived green, like an emotion that cannot be recalled sufficiently. Yet it stands where it's always been, where the incredible horses graze. They seem never ridden, serene there, only combed and released…
1. This bottlebrush tree (a green clash for the sparrows) Struck me to the rock with one hollow eye Of an indented knot The butte had taken the light Which reappeared in winter branches And voltage wires hung at half-mast. All of this being one version of the past. 2. When I'm thinking of the…
Someone asked me once if the world changed whenever I crossed from one language to the other. She said she noticed how my voice changed. I listened to myself: it was the same voice, the same man speaking a strange language. I wondered about my face—if a certain look might be possible only in one…
They make pleasure their first food in the morning, They take their iron wings from under the bed And strap them on in the sun, they grow hotter Than the noon light on the Mission. Afterwards they bathe in snow And dress in feathers of mercury—. Each day is the front of war, With its…
It's not the wave that will devour you, arms and braids and all. Not even the stranger you won't look at in the shiny car. Not the topography of deserts, where you follow streambeds through the night, gobbling up the stars like sugar, ready to break the moon in half. Not even the mountain that…
No products in the cart.