Tadarida brasiliensis You could almost be forgiven for thinkingThey were bats, the apples hanging winter- Black in their branches: almost forgiven for thinkingThem sacks fattened on insects plucked from a sky sucked dry of light. Suspended inversely in slow snow, they bulgeThe squeak of seeds, of leaves springing Up from harvest rot. What sugarThe sun brings out, what discordant music,… Read more →
Whenever I think of CieloI hear what I couldn’t sayand all the words crashinginto the backs of my teeth,their wet stoicism of whiteclamshells on the seafloor as if they’d been welded shutto defend a pearl there. Fromfar away, I looked joylesslyinto her heart, or I tried, tosee behind her shell what I hoped to be glistening insidethat I couldn’t bring… Read more →
it is about my brother & me in my father’s backyardplanting an oak tree. like my father& brother did when he was eight. & it is about the rain & how it rattlesthe older oak’s leaves & how it becomes downpour& overwhelming. how when we walk inside &mother comments you two are just soaked & he… Read more →
it huddles warmlyin the nook of a shoulder the joint cleared of its tendons & muscles, arteries, some nerves.it sleeps unaware that its resting is permanentthat its removal would be fatal to the host. soonflesh will close around it, the tendons will thread back together, the muscles mend,the arteries will adjust around its pointed … Read more →
I was 9 years old, wearing a green plaid dresswith a peter pan collar. Every time I remember my childhood I’m wearing that dress. There was an immensemahogany table. There must have been an eye chart. The Doctor’s hands flapped like dying fishover the top of my dress. I was too young to have breasts. My mother said nothing. I… Read more →
Past the checkpoint,you spot a manwith a backpack, wavinga rag above his head.And when your fatherspots him too, takeshis eyes off the roadto take in this figureemerging from the bush,you wonder what he thinks,if he sees himself in this man,if he remembers, as youbelieve the blank starein his face says he does,his own crossing, how itwasn’t until the third, fourth,maybe… Read more →
On the shoulder, they rest—truck, car, van. And all afternoon,as you drive past each of them,you wonder why they’ve beenabandoned, if they had run outof gas, had a tire blow out,or if the engine, as personifiedas any object, had just given up,which is what your father saidthat night, years ago, he came homesoaked in sweat, and upon taking offhis shirt,… Read more →
And after my father straps a bladeto its claw, and mumbles what I assumeis the end of a prayer, I wonderwhat part of this is real, what sliver of truthpits him against a figure so eagerto thrust his rooster forward, to let gravityguide it to the ground, and to watch—as my father steps back, becomes spectatorand coach—the chaos that ensues,the… Read more →
Three years ago, before the separation,hate-spattered yellow, Sherwin Williams, the boundary of our bodies growing jagged,then dashed, to suggest disputed territory. I imagine you sleeping with the same intensityof a squinting cat. You are not asleep, yet things go more literally, smoothly,as when the fret at the foot of the floor grieves openly, the way morphine spiggles out the door… Read more →