under the overpass of the Cross Bronx, the headlights flash on broken concrete—between cars and exit ramp—and some undefined hunk of metal rising out of broken glass; then the disconnected passage that got us to Manhattan comes to me like a collage of cities spilling off the map. All I know is my father left…
I am the lion. I am the keeper of the keys. Black hats float upon the waters. When I think, I’m sad; when I don’t, I’m elated, over-joyed. Dazzled by the silverblackbacked mirrorwings of three ravens, I follow the shadow dancers onto thin ice! Once I drank silence from a spring, Once I opened slowly…
I had a dream over and over as a child in my shimmering morning-light room, —it was set there, where I slept, woodpeckers hammering at the eaves, the river’s waves’ light moving as if forever on the far wall. I’d wake (still asleep) in the dream —I couldn’t speak!— as the two hands hovered. So…
They come jittering into her life from the past, brunette like her mother, wiry and tense, wearing garments black as anthracite chopped from the city’s heart. Complaint rises like music or smoke past the elegant lamps of their faces as they settle their fringe and nail polish onto our secondhand couch: men, mostly, but the…
Nothing was foreshortened but love, those days of the iced-over river and penniless Thursdays— Iowa, where the news finished with the latest on pork bellies. The paper was named the Press-Citizen, a contradiction in terms. We eyed the neighbors with their post-midnight record hop, Led Zeppelin blasting the arm’s-width of the alley. The injuries of…
Everybody seems to be pointing things at one another these days. The cop with the radar gun pointed his radar gun at my car and my car pointed back, its rearview mirror, to give the policeman an idea of what hurt looks like even if you do deserve that ticket, going 90 in a school…
When my grandmother pulled out the wool suit I hated and told me to take a bath, I wondered just how long it would take before she told me that my father was the thing under the blue tarp in the wagon the men brought up from the fields, but I watched her go to…
Because the cemetery was having a BOGO sale (“buy one, get one”) and real estate dear, my mother bought my burial plot the year I turned eleven and broke my leg and you appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated in the platonic ideal of a pink-and-yellow swimsuit, a form made merely of paint, a…
When my white friends turn to me, upset at my indifference to their conversation about Michael Brown, I point at the lone cue ball I’d been rolling around the table. I spin it and say this is one revolution I can control. It’s how I compress the conversation into metaphor. It’s the only way I…
Winter 1987 - Digital
1 × $6.99 
Fall/Winter 1981 - Digital
1 × $6.99 
Winter 1979 - Digital
1 × $6.99 Subtotal: $20.97