Our daughter never puts her mind on display Like a jewel too precious to own, or an animal Too wild to cage. At church she’s able to sit still, But then for weeks rattles off the names of poisonous Snakes and admonishes us that knowledge lies Only outside of Creation. She stops playing in the…
So quiet you can hear the Archer drawing his bow, the Moon powdering her face, the elegant axle of creation turning. A tiny iridescent frog appeared on the lip of the toilet bowl this morning as if waiting to receive us. He seemed to be the king of something yet made no protest as we…
A chain of crushed nouns has upended my mind. It’s o.k. It’s all right, pretended my mind. A quick cut. A small nick. A surgical touch. O Penthidine, Tramadol, so splendid my mind! Ram drew back the string of King Janak’s great bow, Sita shot through the lifetimes and tended my mind. …
Little brother drinks his neon sadness liquid—no one has a healthy relationship with Mountain Dew. Large, no ice. That means more pop for his buck. Who knows if he enjoys the stuff anymore. I think it’s less about savoring those extra sips and more about putting off the empty cup, that undrinkable last bit…
If 1 is the name of your best friend from sixth grade, which, for no reason, you remember right now, standing in your socks on the cold tile of the examination room and 2 is finding your car in the parking lot later and noticing how dirty it has become—the back seat littered with…
One thing’s for sure; in the future, the morgues are going to be full of tattoos. It’s going to be more colorful, and easier to manage: “Hey Jeff, move Dolphin-Shoulder-Girl to Tray Seven.” “And get Mr. Flames-On-My-Neck out for the doc.” In Italy the tabloids are talking about the “Ambulenza di Morte,” The Ambulance…
You are your father’s broad back re-writ in small script. Your feet, like his, grasp the soil, confident the planet will never spin too fast to throw you off. I never was so sure. I spent most of my childhood watching the clouds move while I stayed still. …
si vis pacem, para bellum— If you want peace, prepare for war. Today I slammed the door so hard the house fell behind me. If any ring remains, of rubble & consequence, my salt heart agape, an oh to construct the shape of the whole just before— This was my…
Before she died, my mother practiced turning herself into stone. Now she sits—a rock on my father’s grave, six feet above his reach. Each spring he punches a hole in his roof, sending up a riot of yellow flowers to tempt her into softening. The tendrils of his need claw the air, grope to touch…
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