Poetry

  • Untitled

    I sit alone in the kitchen thinking about my lover who said it's over and listen to the guy in 12B end his binge with a song so full of wine it sounds red. I pour another cup of coffee, more mud than the last, then look out the window at the East River and…

  • Hog Roast

    If the town celebrates his roasting it's their right. He's their hog. He's pork now. His life in the mash has gone sour. The bad fairy presides over his crispy feet. The prodigal has come back and does not need such company. Now the fires licks this one all over. Now the fire is giving…

  • Heart

    It's got me. Right in the heart all this— a nest— made of broken things— twigs and frayed string; all my talk is a prayer, my eye toward color looks out.

  • Short Story

    My grandfather killed a mule with a hammer, or maybe with a plank, or a stick, maybe it was a horse — the story varied in the telling. If he was planting corn when it happened, it was a mule, and he was plowing the upper slope, west of the house, his overalls stiff to…