What will you write about your final day? On that last page the words require truth’s grain. What use is one more journey’s destination? The sweet surprises of another day? What, when the great fire roars through your home? What, when the earth’s fault slips with its sundering? What passion can you…
It’s alright to overdress for the riot. Your rage is stunning. It’s alright to pursue the wrong pleasures and the right suffering. Here’s my permission. Take it. It’s alright to replace a siren with a bell. Let the emergency make some music. It’s alright that the meter reader broke your sunflower in half. You…
for the ladies at Florence House The fact of April first means nothing other than the rent check is due & spring or not we are all tenants of snow today & I have no children under my apron nor angels gracing my back & the women chew slowly while it thickens beyond…
You’d better believe that if I hadn’t already tied the knot on these sweatpants I’d be out there in the mad brick city painting my lips the only red my complexion will allow, maybe with some heels on, I could probably find some heels or at least borrow some, well first make some friends in…
i.m. Kathleen Roche (1982-2018) God of all comfort, close your hand over the tract houses of Livingston— lay shadow on the subdivided land of Christmas lights and cul-de-sacs and minivans—withdraw the mortar from the bricks that bind the staggered townhomes and cracked chimneys over white-trimmed condominiums— swallow the mailboxes down into the loam beneath…
Charley sponges off the dinner dishes—hers and Karim’s, the girl’s, the Goat’s—then slots them one by one into the rack to drip. All the while staring straight ahead through her reflection into the night. Despite the heat, unusual for Paris in late October, she keeps the windows latched against police sirens and Maghrebi rap and…
We use them every day. Across intersections, white stripes stitch together seams of foot traffic. The ubiquitous stripes signal pedestrian paths that network our built environments. Often called “crosswalks,” these pedestrian crossings have evolved over the years to curiously accrue animal names like zebra crossings, panda crossings, pelican crossings, toucan crossings, and puffin crossings. To…
Just before noon on a Friday that is, better late than never, the first perfect day of spring, a bell on the Commons starts to ring. For years this bell had been bolted inside an Erie & Lackawanna train engine, riding the rails along the Cuyahoga River, less than a mile to the west of…
They come arching over the horizon from distant places, like bent, crooked arrows dispatched from many directions. They arrive in thin blue envelopes on folded stationery, or in fat, feverishly duct-taped packages. By overnight mail—sent prepaid by Fed Ex—($26.00!)—containing, say, three little misshapen onyx pebbles, which, I am told, should be placed in the corner…
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