We have traveled a long way riding the chilly island ferry. If a piano were playing it would not be the music of Handel. The gull floating behind the ship is a perfect syllable dying to be born, a piece of ash freed from the ship's stack. We raise our arms with saltines until he…
Years later, when a voyager sends back Your picture, the letters and the map, I feel as if I'd travelled there myself. You've come down to greet me On your private shore, to tell me All that's happened—how, in secret, Your island has become a wonder. Its sheer escarpments fill the glass— Its vast features…
My friend wears boots to sleep so that I might learn her path. I know the way now. The room is as silent as a child in a closet. I hang this notion from an instrument of hindsight where it rocks at the appropriate moment like fortune's cube on a string. My neighbor with no…
In fourth grade Gabe Acosta and Jamie Hunter promised me they would bring a noose to school and hang me from a specific bough in the recess field. They told me I was a fairy and that fairies belonged in heaven. They each then tweaked my ear lobes, and I could only smile at them…
Steal your sister's presents. Swallow pieces, ride her bike, ride it far into the grove. Show her you've discovered all her holy spots and watch her try to find another, deeper forest: everything she's kept from you is yours now: these frilly private things, this tiny book of screams.
The sink's dishes are the sink's problem as I ooh and aah at the complexity of balance implicit to keep the structure: eight glasses, thirteen bowls, a valley of forks, intact, while I run hot water over a knife for my onion. There's a science to the bathtub's archipelago of grunge colonies that's necessary to…
Above the roof, above the pine glade which lines the road to work, the moon stays. Your day's wood churns into powder, is binned in barrels on the back lot. Mornings, you walk past rows of empty barrels, rims of their lids brightened by tall field lamps. The moon follows you. When you feed tree…
My sister and I are fighting as always in dreams, our faces an inch apart. She's angry because I'm fat, and I because she speaks what I already know without kindness. On the counter: carving knives and platters (perhaps Mother's) (perhaps Mother's dead in the cabinet) and these distract us—what should we do? Don't pick…
Not to arrive and not to ever know how to arrive or how to live even here on Utopia Parkway in Queens. This is for the Soap Bubble Sets and the Sun Boxes and for time that moves like a silent film through a projector and for the eyelids of the blind and for those…
No products in the cart.