My favorite God a horse the color of my name. And when I ride him, a heat between my legs, like tongue on ice, friction of moon against darkness. Over and over, the hooves, the rain, finding the ground. Hearts, black boots flung there in the mud behind us. And all around us, the leaves…
1. The Fingers They are small enough to find and care for a tiny stone. To lift it with wobbly concentration from the ground, from the family of stones, up past the pursed mouth— for this we are thankful—to a place level with her eyes to take a close look, a look…
You were going to ask me why I am here, and I’m going to tell you. But I want you to look at the scar on my arm, this one right here in the shape of a mouth, though not a human one. I like to talk about my scars, I like to talk about…
“As it leaves dawn behind and advances into day, light prostitutes itself and is redeemed—ethics of twilight— at the moment it vanishes.” —E. M. Cioran Ethics of secrets and vanishings, of sunny downfalls and cloudy coverups. The reign of commonsense has ended and strangeness floats through the air. Deceptive moonlight, dusky erasures—…
Every dusk there gather in the trees birds whose bodies lean heavy as magnolias on the bent and swaying branches. Every dusk, in trees, birds gather, looking heavy as magnolias or the shadows of magnolias, since in color birds are darker; and since they scatter, turning to reassemble on their branches, burning slowly in their…
She came to me with a mind like fire and a name written in smoky letters on the wind. She came to me with the grief of a fallen angel, with white arms that should have been wings and skinny legs sadly rooted to the ground. She came to me barefoot in a sleeveless dress,…
Your husband’s laugh, a glass of grenadine. You greet the guests, steer coats onto your arms. Ice rattles the kitchen: he’s mixing drinks. You stand where you can keep an eye on him. One measured glance at me, your face a smooth storm, and I know whatever I’d say—vague murmurings in one…
The weird thing about the place was the speed of light— eight, nine miles an hour, tops. Isweartagod! It was beautiful, though, the way it felt slowing over you like a balmy breeze—light slow enough to catch in a, in a cup, light you could smear on a slice of bread like jam, light you…
for my sister Madeline Then you’ve forgotten how we couldn’t wait for the bulldozers to raze that house on Ridge Road. At the fresh edge they’d butted into the woods, the machines sat stalled for days, reluctant to finish up the job. The goldfish pond had already dried down to its beer cans when our…
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