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I combed the ocean for my minnows while Hattie's giraffes multiplied like spider plants, all yellow and brown on the dry yellow savanna, propelled by their gauche necks, awkward in their bodies, bodies rooted to the feet of the humming planet.
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He liked to take pictures of her, and she liked to pose. It made her horny, she said.
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This is the place you need a third hand
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Boys of summer in Yonkers played stickball and baseball.
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I should have known to wear boots on Teddy’s motorcycle, but I didn’t know that when the engine heated the exhaust pipe became hot as a griddle. Teddy didn’t warn me, and I thought there was something wrong with that, but I let it go the way I jumped on h
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What if I never feel like a real artist? What does it even mean to be a "real" artist? What if nobody ever cares about what I make?
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Your opal eyesYour sea-blue eyesYour sky-blue eyesYour ice-blue eyesYour gray-blue eyes, your periwinklesYour hazel eyesYour violet eyes(almond-shaped and almost cubist)Your indigo eyesYour topaz eyes, your sunkissed lashesYour turtle-sundae eyes.I loved your black shiny…
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i.More and more, for Megan LeMaster, each beginning was its own end. She couldn't bear to buy flowers or dresses that seemed too beautiful. Friendships formed, endured, gave out in a handshake. Each deed in life had an immediate, inescapable…
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You are a warm winter
Despite the presence of snow
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Among the raindrops/
occasional plopping snowflakes.
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Gestures we would like to make in the solitude of a café terrace ... Early in the morning ... She's sitting there, seems shivering. Grey dress, red scarf. Her eyes move. I try to meet them - small, vague black clouds which pass, without resting, by mine. She drinks her…
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I sink until water saturates my lashes, waiting, breathless, for the words to stop.
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Sometimes all that’s/
left is pissing
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"Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,/The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odors./I walk among them, but none of them are noticing."
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She stepped inlike ice alonecould save hershe dived,slicing the wavewith her body her fresh pony tailsubmergedlike a silk scarfthen swam moving thewater awaylike whirlpoolscould hold her buoyantly save her from the headachewhispering wordsThey had been there all…
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My wife and I are cat people. Indeed, that's how we met. We met at a wake.
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He picked at his food. The teen-aged boys gnawed the bones. The conversation was nothing he was interested in. Chitchat and family jokes.
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Traveling with a live chicken on a city bus is an experience I hope never to repeat.
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Someone will labor to keep it alive/
although the body will want but/
to return to random particles
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When I cook sausages, I am afraid I will not let them sit in the pan long enough, and they will be pink inside. Then, even if the pigs have been handled humanely, I and the person for whom I've prepared this meal will be at risk for some terrible stomach poisoning.Let's say…
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I was little, very little, when Happiness went away. I moved the entire earth, walked in the ferns, poked in the river. Happiness had disappeared. I looked to the sky. I remember, the sun had the porous face of an orange. Not unlike my skin. My eyes fixed above, I saw it…
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He looked straight at her, not to challenge her, but to better gauge what it was she would throw at him. Her eyes always darted to the thing right before her red, swollen fingers snatched at it, like a thing possessed.
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he scans the headlines of the tabloids as he waits to pay. “Dog Accidentally Shoots Man With His Own Gun, Elvis's Hidden Extraterrestrial Daughter, Swedish Man Bursts Into Flames on Train Platform.”
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My spooky cat got out again. Under the deck she ran. Out came the hose that chased her about. Fur spiked, tail pointing, yowling, she hissed at me, and back in the house she pranced. It's been two days now. She slithers out for food after…
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Lately, while he is upon me, in that way that men are upon women, I imagine him a pornstar with only one clip available for replay. Like I am a loop of a video girl below, taking it, maybe calling out in Russian. When I feel rambunctious, I imagine him a
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My mother is private with her grief. Since my father’s death last year there has been almost no talk of him. When she got back from the funeral, she put his clothes in boxes for Goodwill, and rearranged the furniture in the den. She won’t discuss what
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A wall of icons can be beautiful if you don’t look closely at the hands. The hands tell stories of too short lives and unrequited love.
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Lucky for mama, he doesn't like for his women to work.
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