Was it madness that enabled you to fall into the ocean— if you were “dancing” on the rocks as I’ve been told, it could have been loss of balance—we say that of the mad don’t we, I can see each taunting lift of foot, the bitten hands flailing, I can, off East Haven more than…
Just there, deep in shadow, the peeling paint of an old door to a carriage house behind untrimmed cypress branches, a shade somewhere between turquoise and navy wrung by rain to namelessness, a color we can no longer locate on the spectrum, the lost blue of tenderness and sorrow overlain with exaltation, a door we…
Like a pomegranate, I wore my garnets quietly. Nude lip, beige tongue. I took the shape of clouds passing by. I was a tool for divination—you used me to find water & blamed me when I drank. We dreaded you together. Still, I kept my smile on, even when you hid the key to my…
His beard’s still dark but a little grayer. I, too, have a gray hair or two twisting through the dark ivy between my legs. Honestly, I’m surprised he recognizes me standing up. He looks well, fit, his smile as generous as I remember, all those times on my back staring up at a faded picture…
Sometimes, we let ourselves believe we’re talking to his ghost. Sometimes, we think memory, its rhyme. How long can you stay afloat? my sister asks when he admits to paying his ex-girlfriend’s rent again. He doesn’t care that she’s seeing other men and avoids his calls— doesn’t care that he owes back-taxes and hasn’t held…
Where are the flying stars of my childhood? Evenings lit like a glitterball’s sparkle against the night’s dim walls. Their absence is like aging: one less pulse each year. I want my childhood of darkness bedazzled again with shards of light— my tiny lighthouses, my suburbs of surprise— where the shadows of dogwoods and crepe…
DEFINE, meaning “the degree of distinctness in outline of an object, image, or sound,” sound being some motion invisible to the eye, progenitor to an empire of echoes, although empire implies dominion, a definition demanded from its subjects, all of whom are subject to their own purpose, “one that may be acted upon,” which is…
I’m attracted to the em dash—that bridge across the void— a balance beam—a baton passed across thoughts—the sexiest break—the turntable’s tonearm before the groove kicks in— the “Electric Slide” of punctuation—(it’s electric!)—not an en dash or a hyphen—an expanded truth—playing the long game—the schemes between chess moves—all the small mercies—the giant oak on Corning Street …
Not the rose carpet, nor the steady breath of the ceiling fan, but the patch of sunlight squeezing through. You’ve been here before. You’re early. Unlike last time—stuck in traffic. The other passengers in the Keke Napep did what people stuck in traffic do: smile at strangers, tell the driver to change the radio station,…
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