In the taxi alone, home from the airport, I could not believe you were gone. My palm kept creeping over the smooth plastic to find your strong meaty little hand and squeeze it, find your narrow thigh in the noble ribbing of the corduroy, straight and regular as anything in nature, to find the slack…
It is evident not only in the general frame of Nature, that things most manifest unto sense have proved obscure unto the understanding. Sir Thomas Browne “Hi.” “Hi.” “You OK?” “I guess . . . You?” “I miss you.” “I miss you too.” “What are you doing?” “Reading . . . You?” “The Late Show.”…
Hazed with harvest dust and heat the air swam with flying husks as men whacked rice sheaves into bins and all across the sunstruck fields red flags hung from bamboo poles. Beyond the last treeline on the horizon beyond the coconut palms and eucalyptus out in the moon zone puckered by bombs the dead earth…
Three months after he lies dead, that long yellow narrow body, not like Christ but like one of his saints, the naked ones in the paintings whose bodies are done in gilt, all knees and raw ribs, the ones who died of nettles, bile, the one who died roasted over a slow fire— three months…
When I take you in my mouth, it is all just a matter of identity. I study the weather reports. In a photo essay of Sun Valley Ski Lodge, under her picture, there is this: “Sonja Henie starred in Sun Valley Serenade BUT NEVER VISITED THE PLACE.” Wait, I think hear the phone. The child,…
About eight of us were nailing up forts in the mulberry grove behind Reds' house when his mother started screeching and all of us froze except Reds—fourteen, huge as a hippo—who sprang out of the tree so fast the branch nearly bobbed me off. So fast, he hit the ground running, hammer in hand, and…
Sweet Jesus, talking his melancholy madness, stood up in the boat and the sea lay down, silky and sorry. So everybody was saved that night. But you know how it is when something different crosses the threshold—the uncles mutter together, the women walk away, the young…
To find a bit of thread But twisted In a peculiar way And fallen In an unlikely place A black thread Before the mystery Of the closed door The greater mystery Of the four bare walls And catch oneself thinking Do I know anyone Wearing such dark garments Already worn to threads First thing in…
for Galina Gabay Green rivers run in February at the curbsides. Moscow is so huge, the snow so deep that when once the melt starts, nothing can stop it. People rejoice at that rushing water as we do at the first snow drops. We walk around goony in mid-March. “Fifty-one degrees,” we say. The sun…
No products in the cart.