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The leaves all blaze, a fireplace's commonplace crimson and gold, the vines become scrawls of a letter hidden from someone — parents, your spouse, or other lover — between newpapers in the kindling bin or only accidentally fallen into flames, and, worse, your only memory of the address is vines black upon leaves blackening after…
How should they look, Indians, California Indians, Streaming down the red dirt road, Igneous dirt, past my mother's Family's house? How should they Look in 1922? Should They be dirty, poor, straggly Unfortunate things, hair matted, Dragging discarded fragments Of cloth, clutching beads Of the cheapest gaudiest Glass? Or should they look heroic, Movie version,…
The two men had not met in years. They had never really known one another, except by reputation and through mutual friends. Both had received important prizes and fellowships in recent years, and so they greeted one another now with a certain wariness and tentative respect. Arthur's new home was something of a showpiece, really…
It wasn’t easy, inventing the wheel, dragging the first stones into place, convincing them to be the first house. Maybe that’s why our fathers, when they finished work had so little to say. Instead, they drifted — feet crossed on the divan, hands folded over stomachs like a prayer to middle age. They watched the…
Gambelli's waitresses sometimes got down on their knees, searching for coins dropped into the carpet— hair coiled stiff, lips coated in that hennaed shade of red, the banner-color for lives spent in the wake of husbands dying without pensions, their bodies used in ceaseless marching toward the kitchen's dim mouth, firm legs migrating slowly ankleward….
At the edge of the night road— a dead hedgehog with its grist of hatched viscera. The beam of undipped headlights has crystallized in its yellow eyes. Dead hedgehog and I neither quickening my heartbeat nor slackening my pace.
The purple iris holding its throat open, a music too faint to be heard enters the waiting room, the singing clear, but only to the inner ear. We have come for a glimpse of the unborn, in white robes ghosting through the exam room. On the screen a hand, a blur of bone, the skull…
So today, yet another Guyanan will try to run the border dressed in a dead housewife's hair—all they've recovered since her disappearance from a downtown shopping mall. An “incident,” the paper says. One of those “routine occurrences”— wrestling my trust ever further from the publicans assigned to keeping us safe, whole. Rather: vow to stay…
Love abandons you fear abandons you the summers fall on you in sheaves and who will — as you grow more fragile and smaller when the wind blows upward at the edge of the precipice — hold you back with a gentle touch.
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