His smile stretches wide to hide a familiar, hollowed-out pain,minstrelled, ready to play on command.How differently he’s portrayed from others in his day—butternut brown, a burnished glow lights his torso.Gold vest and grey frock coat, pre-Civil War, dapper.In this version of the story: he’s not as a slaveworking in a field but a musician holding bones/ivory/woodin his loose fists, fingers curled against his…
Before she brought me forth, I wish she’d knownhow much more she’d need to take away, the momI knew marooned in Alabama. Moves to MS, FL,and TN, and she can’t return without a flat tire,financial fiasco, old lovers making pilgrimagewho could undo the curse but instead scrape offthe lonely single dad veneer, let kindnesses findtheir…
We found the cardinal nearthe bird feeder: stiff, eyes fixed, wearing the brightest red coatof any bird I’ve seen this summer. With a shovel I lift him from the dirt,show him to my daughter who gazes upon the orange bill, the rigored body,leans in close enough to touch. Was it raptured? Preyed upon?Could we have…
I search online for causes and find that most are tied to loss.A child, a parent, a friend, regret. For me, the I is lost. The most awful things happen hours after a session, not anotherfor a week or two. The Therapy Curse, I call it, covering the years I’ve lost. Sometimes I see angels,…
He’s wearing two watches,one set to the local time in New York,the other in Gaza. In a café with friends,waiting for his tea at the round table,and whenever his eyes fallon the dial of the Gaza watch, he can see the kidsof his Gaza neighborhood running in the alleys,girls playing hopscotch, boysplaying soccer. At night,…
Neighbors smuggle the sunthrough tunnelsbeneath the houses.The smoke of bombsdropped from the F-16shas covered the city’s sky.
At my first history class,the only students attendingare the future, the present, and the past.As I step in, the future gets ready to leave,while the past straddles the present,handcuffing it,severing its hamstrings,and dyeing its clothes gray.
She did not play horsey on the hardwoodfloor. She did not neigh, nor did she whinny.She had some things she wanted to write down:something about her father and his gunsand his alcohol and her trite love for himthat never got to pale in comparisonto the blooming chest-fire she would have feltif she ever held her…
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, today, is mine,eye…
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