You can feel dusk suck at the heat and clatter and rhythms of earnest conversations, standing a minute with the silver pitcher, letting its sweat collect beneath your palm as a secret, something for yourself, like the thought of diving on a long breath through cool water, then rising to recover, to lie motionless, face…
Instructions for this hour: First, breathe as shallowly as you can. Pretend you hear the sound of a door slamming over and over, its bright clang, then muffled reverberation. Your heart beats more quickly until your hands make involuntary fists that knock against each other like the hearts of strangers. Second, pretend you are a…
Because no one has ever asked, because the task is incumbent upon me, I want to reveal the secret gathering place of heroes: we scaled the rough, stucco wall of a row of one-story garages and loitered on the tar roof, staring down the weakening sun— Tommy O'Brien, Glenn Marshall, everyone's girl, Rosemarie Angelastro, and…
Coming home alone I've always looked for that body. It would be no one I know, and I'd sit with him in the white light of the bathroom mirror and porcelain, for once certain of death's appearance, because grief has no need of interfering. I wash him and shave him, leave him wrapped in blankets…
And what did that make her? Forcing him to do it. She didn't like insistence, only because she could never pace or gauge it. Faster: his panic burning off, buried in her pores like mist. No distance: skin, whose it was, whose limb even, unclear. She didn't like binding him, full of being bound. She…
One day the footsteps climbing the stair were mine. ‘I knew that was you coming up the gyre’ said Dante opening the door to me before I pressed the bell ‘who else would come with the lifts out of order. Come in, come in, I've been expecting you. . .’ And he made me come…
“Were all thy letters suns, I could not see“ Cousin Wallace was a fat-faced cantor with thick black glasses and soft hands, who at forty lived with his father Sam, and his mother Rose who had hair on her chin. To support them he taught school and sang in suburban temples. Then he was stabbed…
1. Exact and tyrannical intelligence in women: in their bodies. Not ventriloquy; acumen, the splintered eye refusing a caduceus, a tree-of-life, or any surface wholeness to swirl beakers of light. Bodies of women constructing two solutions from the same vinegared mother whose uncleaving polarizes light: black, or bright, a light that can't pass till it's…
That small girl crouched on the top steps to listen is still waiting to hear her name on their lips, to come alive like a deck of cards shuffled in their downstairs hands. She's still motionless outside the living room, straining to catch some hint that no one drops, still in that hallway dwelling on…
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