“I hate Ladytown—so much can go wrong down there.” —Steph Things weren’t looking good in Ladytown. True, it was always lush, like D.C. in August, high humidity, but that year the very brickwork sweated salt. That year the Metro chafed the tunnel walls and the train whistles’ wail rose to a new pitch of dismay,…
Note the surface that surrounds the word, and how unlike its meaning, which you step over to avoid, the word raised and touchable. Pitted prune, eaten bone, hay in a muddy yard. Let exist and me see them all: paint in a locker room; rubber garden hose washer; disease displayed on a rosebush leaf; a…
A run-down hall of echoes. Shout your name,? You will hear it again, from generations? Gone before you . . . The souls they have become By the million, look at them, transmigrating Out of Europe, dragging sailors’ trunks? Aboard the Pullmans—conscious of rank, Edwardian . . . There they go, to break the bank…
If your dream comes to life and the houses on our street lift themselves up and walk off on their leggy stilts and find different roosts before you come home from school, I will meet you at the spot in case of fire under the dying pine—whose roots are not legs. But promise me: if…
Out on the shine off the street there is the reflection of the coming bustle of dawn, of plastic and bolted steel, neon and industry caught in the asphalt. And as the grass sweats—the groan of machinery echoing off masonry—the dust rises, sewing itself in the fat of trees, shining the faces of men in…
The study of History is the study of Empire. —Niall Ferguson I cannot enter. To enter that room, I would need to be a man who makes History, not a girl to whom History happened. Mother to two daughters, I guard their lives with hope, a pinch of salt I throw over my shoulder. To…
That story I told you about suffering Was a lie. I never wandered into The woods with a pack of matches. Truth is I was born there, and there I ran the weather. Deer left Apples in my hand, so I didn’t think To cook the deer. The secret of my Life was my life,…
You’ve given me some hairy forearms, God, and a dark patch on this heaving chest. And, now, I have written my screenplay, eaten the buttered meat of the calabaza with my children. Smiled at a stranger for no goddamn good reason. Blasphemed. Not like Job; I’m reductive, a snot blower, piss-stained this morning, underweared, I…
A chef cuts off your coo, your iridescent neck, eases a small planet from your belly. Once wings and lift, you lie beneath a pinch of black pepper, onion, feel yourself brushed with butter, browned; sense yourself inside an oven: its intimate sky. Your brain was once a compass housed in a binnacle; your beak,…
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