Author: admin

He lifts the weight of food to his open mouth, his spoon repeating a rhythmic pose of cupping to gather and twisting on its side to feed its charge. A steeled hunter-gather foraging through milky swamps to unearth the pebbles of...

The growl of blocked air from his mouth inches away, slack in sleep and opened closing with one loud hmpht when your hand makes light contact with his. The mind’s floating as waves of memory crash, break, and wash away. Laying...

from L’Allegria/Cheerfulness (Poems 1914-1919) Part 2: Porto Sepolto/The Buried Portby Guiseppi Ungaretti Cima Quartro il 22 dicembre 1915 Dondolo di ali in fumo mozza il silenzio degli occhi Col vento si spippola il corallo di...

The grey-green ground tinted with brown brushed the earth with its dryness. Orange molasses burnt into the stretches it covered. Above-cloud mountain peaks grapple with city-templed valleys. Houses, scrunched together...

It’s a hot and humid afternoon the trees buzz with invisible insects and sprinklers with their fat silver fans sway slowly back and forth over parched lawns. The last time I saw you I knew it wouldn’t be long. Your words drifted...

Her name is Maggie Elizabeth, but she’s Aunt Dixie to us, a reference to her Carolina roots. An Appalachian tide pool still flows through her even though she’s lived most of her life just shy of Lake Ontario’s shores. She’s home...

My doctors call my lungs an impassable sea. Kidneys a dam from which nothing flows. No food, no words pass my lips. I look to the moment when all I am isn’t. Amid the closing fog, I hear one of my sisters say, “Can’t you put in...

Each snowflake, a white, lacy hole in the air, a winter blossom falling from a tree of sky, accumulates on the driveway. I stare out of the living room window at weather turning landscape into a bride’s gown. Behind me,...

A movie-star blond, he thinks every time she comes in for a cut. Natural, hanging straight to mid-back, a golden rainfall. Six inches of rain a year, he guesses. He’s known every thread, every inch as intimately as his own,...

1. My father at the piano composing. I, a boy not yet three, imagining all fathers composers. Surprised to find otherwise. That all fathers don’t sing. Or stay home and write songs. Or plant black dots in a thicket of black...