Henry Grew Crosby, 32 years old, of a socially prominent Boston family, and Mrs. Josephine Rotch Bigelow, 22 years old,… were found dead last night, each with a bullet in the head…The couple died in what is described as a suicide compact…His wife was formerly Mrs. Mary Peabody. The New York Times, December 11, 1929 c.1917 Mrs. Mary (Polly)Peabody: In… Read more →
—for Katie Mead My friend, we die mid- sentence. En medias res. We die half-delirious in labor reversed. You expected poignant last words but instead came a heap of trash from your mother’s mouth: bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, she said, a bullshit to halos, a bullshit to wings, a bullshit to golden god mansions, celestial beasts sharp-fingering bullshit harp strings. Because… Read more →
1. A brand in a can and, later, conveniently in sticks, but also a word—crisco— applying to any shortening, any oil teased from its natural state to stay solid at room temp. Used with a peppering of coffee grounds to fry chicken, or with ice water to roll flat a pie crust, or in her cornbread, made the… Read more →
Metal he used to be totally dull-colored because he came from the earth’s inside now he has become a super-conductor for cold words, hot pictures and light itself all being transmitted through his throat Water with her transparent tenderness coded with colorless violence she is always ready to support or sink the powerful boat sailing south Wood rings in rings… Read more →
Like folding a fitted sheet, revision balks at effort, doesn’t yield to zest and drive. It flaunts its bulky seams, conspicuous. Following instructions—even more redundant and pointless: place underneath, tuck corners, slide your hand, straighten edges. Stashed on the shelf, it deflates and pouts, hides its ghosts. Wistful anamorphosis, revision longs for the sparkle… Read more →
Like there might not be a room beneath the roof that is Emily, I have done things, they would be horrible things if they were not done in the name of Emily? Yes. There is an incredible science to relationships, sacrifice & sacrifice. Is it still a room if it is devoured by reactions? Yes. The smoke can be the… Read more →
Nothing was colder or bluer. Not your eyes when I left. The first to love were also first dead: sugar & jagged dagger, more than stripped. During our silent decade, I read your yellowed letters: inebriated forests of sentimentia. My life in our arboretum had been curled. burning sky & thickened pond, fire & water (I craved). I needed air-… Read more →
She worries her hair, which feels like a wire brush. As for the cadaver? That she keeps going with occasional gigs, and a presence (web) and “friends.” When Rick Wakeman is playing East Stroudsberg, PA, the world has changed. And if in reading this you’re lost, well, there you are, the world changed, the stars fled, the gifted hired as… Read more →
Inside every rabbit grows a forest. A map tells me I am just shy of a thousand miles from the sand pine nodding outside your window. Each state between us jangles like a coin box. Each city: an insect- hole. I am too broke to come visit you, and even so I have become as small to you as the… Read more →
When they say I am nothing like my family everywhere I begin to see my son. The days loll into clammy pages, stain my hands indigo. This is what cleaning affords me: a soup lid in a trash bag slices my leg. Blood smears dirty plastic. I smash the coffee pot on the counter. If glass is bound… Read more →