Translated by Jennifer Grotz and Piotr Sommer Verily it is the Apple that wants to be eaten Apple of sweet ignorance of good and evil a dappled, appley, appleton squeezed inside itself like a fist reeling until hurt by its own seeds Around its own impatience it quickly revolves to eve so that she might…
She says, Your English is great! How long have you been in our country? I say, Suck on a mango, bitch, since that’s all you think I eat anyway. Mangoes are what model minorities like me know nothing about, right? Doesn’t a mango just win spelling bees and kiss white boys? Isn’t a mango a…
loved the Mobius, and the sky’s big suggestion of a universe, and now and then would imagine a heaven as if it were his to construct and manage, death just a pause before the real work would begin. In truth, and in his…
Is it difficult to get away from it all once you’ve had a child? I am swaying in the galley—working to appease this infant who is not fussing but will be fussing if I don’t move— when a black steward enters the…
Do you remember when we were standing around the park waiting for something cool to happen and that friend of ours walked up to a very orange cat and kicked it into the sky like a soccer ball, like the exact opposite of what the animal was, and how it seemed to stay in the…
When he’s in the yard he’s hard to find not like when he stands in the stubble across the road brewing his voice with deeper and deeper percolations of what sounds like, “I’ll fuck anything in feathers,” stopping now and then to display his fan and perform a wobbly polka, chest heavy as he breasts…
The day’s wait over, empty-handed, I head for the truck. Some hunting days are like this, big sky showing itself off, blue down through purple to orange, salmon clouds. I’m recalling the lichen-shagged dead maple snag I stared at for an hour from my tree stand, green and gray and white starbursts, feathery at the…
Birds on a limb so far as we know sing no early bird elegies. So bird on a limb here’s no grim gift but low squawked hackle trembling antiphony to your lines about the birds not knowin who in the trees they’re singing for yet…
Dry Season at the End of the Empire Oh yes, the chariots were everywhere that summer. Running the wide streets and kicking up dust. No rain for weeks. That’s what we all said. No rain. In drawing rooms. In parlors. At the card table in The Dowager’s Palace, which was just some rooms she kept…
No products in the cart.