Author: admin

My parents knew nothing of the land, raised in tenements on sepia avenues, chock-a-block with lantzmen. In the family way, they nested on a tree- lined street, in a house that was set sideways, on a narrow lot, with a steep...

My mother tells him he can’t go yet.       Remember what Pop always said,       “It’s written in the book.” My father repeats,       It’s written in the book. My mother beams,       You remember! And he snaps back,       How...

You’re asking me to tell the world. You’re asking me to undress in the face of a monsoon. You’re asking me to find words in a single song – of a wound. Not possible. I’m a banana with black spots, a contrapuntal to Bartok,...

when the women in white cowgirl hats were too thin, too blond in those Arizona Highways ads arriving monthly at my mother’s porch steps. I was just a frizzy-dark-haired Round-faced child who attempted to iron her hair on a...

. . . doubtful of daylight, on the verge of the wood, how do I bless this ritual? this waking of the house to silences between silhouettes of spruce, birch and sparrow, where the music lies, where I fall into a suspended...

Frost changes nothing in Oklahoma. Sickles cut through wheat. The work remains despite a fragrance of death in the fields where color leeches from yellow stalks. Eyes like red coals watch for your errors as you wield the scythe....

Cronos, which, as it brings an end to all things which have had a beginning, may be said to devour its own offspring. – Footnote from Bullfinch’s, The Age of Fable Baffled by tips of sharpened steel pointed this way and...

Steadfast in the kitchen, solid as the formica counter where he stood and ate toast in a serious manner, pressed bright oranges on an electric juicer, then yelled upstairs, “fresh squeezed orange juice!” Handsome in tennis...

Through an image he incised on a half-sheared cliff-face, in a tongue not supposed to be known by us, he speaks not to me, not to who succeeds me. I wonder if he guessed no one would fathom it—art, or the desire to be? With or...

Upon me the sun still glares yellow, though 8 billion brown and drown; who’s left will scramble south to north, clawing this fray of earthly hernia mesh that holds back my inguinal sobs. Though I’d hate to watch my kids die...

A Mother Ponders Rimbaud’s, Le Dormeur du Val Eighty-four times the hours lapped upon shore before she split me, soft flesh mangled, a ripe and tender plum. I lay there, riven, no river to sing me to sleep, the chirp of an alarm...