You are not yet asleep, your breathing slides deep into the sound of rain, its various sounds: the tap on the tin roof, the slash as it blows across the screen, a swish that washes across the shingle siding, it drums up against the window, the heavy gush from the crotch in the roof then…
The needle sinks in. Cold snakes through my veins, chemistry that kills to heal. The doctor chats of skiing, how he glided along the empty, blank expanse of Commonwealth Avenue after the snowfall. I carry home a needle-deep mauve stain. As a child I had a nightmare of my mother, a black bruise on her…
Goodbye people of Armero. Never again shall you dance nor drink ale at the tiendas. Next week are scheduled no first communions no more patio piñatas; no church bells toll no idlers stroll along the Calle Mariscal Sucre. Doña Flor, her customers, will serve no more and the spade of Don José will turn no…
In the city that apparently never was—the here— where the hero dies and dies to no avail, where one is not oneself it suddenly appears (and you, who are you and are you there?) I found myself at the window at last, the room inside dark, it being late, the — outside dark, it being…
The night my brother died my father wrenched his own cracked, yellow molars from his mouth and went crashing like a wounded deer over the ridge and down, five miles through the brush, into Soda Canyon where the cops found him wandering, spent, around the burnt-out dance hall and brought him home. Bandaging his brush…
Dawning, but for whom? He lies unconscious, broken by the surf of sleep, marbled skin and bluish lips, green anisocorion. A bond of godhead almost extinguished with the arriving blood-red dawn. Who now can conjure feeling for someone permeated by dark and light of spent passion, whose shrivelled lips remind one of worn fruit? Let…
We used to drive around in the car at night, we didn't have anything else to do. We didn't like to be in our apartment. There weren't places we could sit and do things. If I read my homework on the bed, there wasn't anywhere for my mother to go. The sofa in the living…
As a child I didn't learn to logroll good or know it was a sport. To reach a clearing of summer-smooth water where I plopped a red float and hooked line to fish for carp With arms extended I'd glide dance skip jump run land on vast islands of logs spinning wet waiting for tugboats…
She dreams redly of ashes and is hurrying, hurrying.
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