Husks
Steam whispers from the stove. You and I shuck corn, ripping away husks, revealing ears and ears. It was always summer then. Then there were no more summers. Drop them into the water. They do not know enough to scream.
On Thursday We Said Everything
“Aren’t we enough?” You’re asking me. I’m pulling at the dog’s white hairs that find themselves wedged everywhere, even under our skin. I wish they were thorns. I wish they were pricking deeply enough to pull from me something better than “I don’t know.” I feel like I’m looking at you through pool water. I think blue raspberry Kool Aid… Read more →
Dianne Corbeau (A slideshow)
Sabzi Mandi
It’s noon, grandma’s on the cot, next to the wall next to the window, peeling hot potatoes, her swollen feet blue, smell of her half-dry sari in the closed room, al dente dreams, parts you can’t chew, grandma’s white teeth uncooked corn, her nose-ring catches and spits light you sleep head on her chest past five at the Sabzi… Read more →
The Plagues
of water turning to blood the pink tornados in the porcelain,reminds me of time. hourglasssand pouring out of me. the blush,dusty rose. perpetual empty, the slowpendulum swing of fear when the waterstays clear to fear when it doesn’t. of frogs of squelch of wet smack of deep gut throatof expand retract release of slipslide on mother’skitchen tile of pink tongue… Read more →