Sidewalk vendors look askance when I ask Am I headed East or West? I could tell them I navigate by the sky’s color but it wrong-foots me time and again. What sky? they say, looking up. The one that cracked wide one bright September, while we were looking away, the one that enchanted Portuguese cartographers,…
Translated by Jennifer Grotz and Piotr Sommer Verily it is the Applethat wants to be eatenApple of sweet ignoranceof good and evila dappled, appley, appletonsqueezed inside itselflike a fistreeling until hurt by its own seeds Around its own impatienceit quickly revolves to eveso that she might haveall the blushing all at once And sayeth the…
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…
The Cray Revisitation Lord she’s gone done left me been confiscated / up and split upand I with no laws to make hercome back and everywhere the handmade helms are jadebright manifesto white crystal disinfo glistensBatman Gabby Giffords Sandy Hook and Charleston droveMz Firearms away made her take her Rights and her Amen…
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 cramped space …
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…
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