The cube of 5 is 125, expressed as a sum of two squares in two different ways: 125 = 10² + 5² = 11² + 2². Our family of 5 makes an odd-numbered cube: father, mother, son, daughter, daughter; or man, woman, boy, girl, girl; or Philippe, Jennifer, Benjamin, Daniella, Simone. * 125 is called a Friedman number in base… Read more →
Rat Alley for Real After a short circuit round the block and being put off for further by the dark clouds, one of the girls pointed the way up the lane. You could get through there, yeah, she indicated. Back onto Jalan Trus, Straight Road. In broad daylight there was nothing to fear. (A newspaper report relayed to little Lia… Read more →
They say the blue spinal fluid of the horseshoe crab could holdthe cure for cancer. Imagine them, their spike tails strapped skyward, leaking not the ocean but its color. . .With the flatness of the ocean floor, this relative of the spider — this non web-spinning cousin—doesn’t know how to be inverted. Or bled. Exoskeletoned and the one eye reading… Read more →
The quiet sighof May evening. Outside, what cars remain turnslowly toward home. Alone indoors, we pray desperately to our gods. Surely the people are grass. Surely the people are grass.
Through slit-like blinds,bright sycamore leaves. Inside,blankets in their usual heap. Slowly, we circle the actual thing. I cannot locate it in the body– that ravenous hope. After, the treeso green it could burstinto blossom – but won’t.
If the age was opulence I am a walking cloak of memory smashing sveltein the fine line of fresh air unlonelied velvet sit with privilegein your honey throat gossip flinging afflictionof this generation how much can one name carry, oh — eternal legacies it was so much heavier than I thought it would be one snowflake at a time perhaps,… Read more →
for greatness that was his last mistakewe massed his grave the family in a slab without belief of afterlife in this lifeI despised his guardian angels his stunt crash resurrections his hearingwas blurry one sentence led into another bled into my mother’s ears one time shethrew a hot rag at him during recovery at home his ribs broken she was… Read more →
Outside the summer-dead cemetery, a crew chips the trimmed branches of pine. Some morningsit’s the fragrance of a cut lawn that make you breathe deeper. Others, the lawnmower’s two-stroke fumes. Today, despite the noise, you could think forest and be in deep shade, sap formingon cones overhead. The soft earth of needles seem to never decay but weave like a… Read more →
cavities of the house lay open, gasping cold light & air. In each cell a curled body recoiled, mitochondria enclosing the corrugated, ruched christae, so much surface area crenelated, packed … Read more →
For May Sarton After the stroke, May’s fans broughther birdseed, in a fifty-pound bagshe couldn’t lift. The poet struggled to rise, to open the door of her home,saw the bag, then burst into tearsof frustration. The bag seemed to torment her,like the high-heeled slipperssomeone gave me after my stroke; like healthy people who told meat twenty-three and paralyzed,it could be… Read more →