Whenever she met someone, she secretly analyzed their handwriting. She wondered if these insights were illicitly gained, like wiretapping, but reasoned that graphology was merely close attention to the person without the distraction of interaction. Each element of the psyche had its equivalent mark on paper: the dominant upper zone of one friend indicated spirituality,…
There is nothing more than a painted room and I, a painted woman in it by an open window, a brass sun and a blob of flowers on a cabinet. Crowds come in every day to look at the bold brass color of the sun, the window quite unlike any other; the cabinet with flowers….
All summer and fall the couple floats hand in hand from work at the shelter workshop. Hand in hand in their secondhand sleeveless oxford shirts. With target tattoos on their deltoids. Even in the winter, the same way, hand in hand, although bundled up in secondhand wool coats. One snowy evening, right after they pass…
Is it a vanishing point or is it Brooklyn into which the cables run Brooklyn over which these two these shadowy walkers come against the shaded rails against the future in the arcades in the bridge the parallels above them in midair § Under a clatter of fire…
Along the Avenue of Sultans the beech and chestnuts are dishabille from cold, ice-glazed, cloaked in coal smoke from upended barrels the displaced huddle about. The war is more elemental— stay warm, scrounge for food, search photos posted everywhere for lost family: Nedzad Ljuta, 55, last seen, Milo Medardich,…
I could speak on a hotter than fire riot time and a woman tying up her Detroit promises in a rag. The prodigal child arriving in Muscle Shoals, Alabama—hopefully to sing freedom if only for one day. The migration head swallowing its tail in the year of my birth. I’m telling the truth when I…
So, God takes your child by the hand and pulls her from her deathbed. He says: “Feed her, she is ravenous.” You give her fruits with thick hides —pomegranate, cantaloupe— food with weight, to keep her here. You hope that if she eats enough the light and dust and love which weave the matrix of…
How fitting that he should come back as blues, the whole panoply from indigo to ultramarine on two wings, as cows lumbered up the swale to a hilltop pasture, the sun sunk behind the now truly named Blue Ridge, the world in deepening shadow. How perfect that he should come back as a butterfly, and…
on daddy’s farm, the stallions we snared and stormed into dirt would rear high to stuff their mouths with sun, buck to kick stars out of sky. rope and spur seared servitude’s lesson through muscle and bone till they broke beneath brand. sometimes, i would stoop far and slow in front of them, low enough…
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