She did not play horsey on the hardwood floor. She did not neigh, nor did she whinny. She had some things she wanted to write down: something about her father and his guns and his alcohol and her trite love for him that never got to pale in comparison to the blooming chest-fire she would…
Don’t let me end up a mural on Bryant St. Sound of a cheap lighter heating a joint. Hiss like deep inhale from a fresh joint, large worries can be made small with a mouth. Large worries made small in Sunday’s mouth: aunties’ lips while they sing, victory is mine I dream and sing, victory,…
In poetry, our winner is Logan Klutse, for his poems “Bronx Operating Room” and “Learning of Conspiracy Theories that ‘the Portal to Hell Resides Beneath the Denver Airport.’” Of the poems, poetry judge Sandra Cisneros says, “This poet’s work is unpretentious, intelligent, and intriguing. It mines the personal while confronting contemporary issues. Most refreshing is…
In poetry, our winner is Logan Klutse, for his poems “Bronx Operating Room” and “Learning of Conspiracy Theories that ‘the Portal to Hell Resides Beneath the Denver Airport.’” Of the poems, poetry judge Sandra Cisneros says, “This poet’s work is unpretentious, intelligent, and intriguing. It mines the personal while confronting contemporary issues. Most refreshing is…
When she comes to take you away she asks if your ring comes off. You twist and twist. You surrender. Celeste says it will come off later. In those next hours so many doors open, none of them returning you to me. A man in the atrium below plays piano— an ambling, jazzy, wine spritzer….
A mast year for acorns, so like marbles and so many we’re afraid of falling. I walk sideways down the hill, holding a long stick; Kate goes before me wearing her orange knit cap. Everything alive is changing. Everything un-alive is changing. What did we think to stop? The broken trees lean on the unbroken…
So, I’ve grown less apparent apparently: the young men walk their dogs, and when our dogs meet we look at the dogs without raising our eyes to each other. The fathers stand outside the elementary school laughing with the mothers—Exactly, one of them says to the other— my passing presence faded like a well-washed once-blue…
What have you done? Opened this box of sound, warped like sand beneath water, remember that? The waves of perception moving you away from me. We grow farther apart, but we are equal in our ignorance of how. No change there. Like celestial bodies distancing—like the animals in autumn. How? This knowledge, how will you…
After the protest at dusk, two policemen on horseback closing the park approached me and Vita and offered us rides home. Sheepish but game, we grabbed hold of their leather and galloped across field and hill to the edge. Gassed and smiling, we waved goodbye. Jim was waiting at the restaurant. I wanted to tell…
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