Regardless of what you’ve been told, I moved in because I didn’t want to hear the ocean anymore, the slosh of water autopsying itself— a reminder that I would one day be an unclaimed vacancy. That endless hum and pulse rattled the limp spiral of my body, echoed through the sideways cadence of my thoughts. […]
Tightly drawn curtains in the windows. Clay pot planted with balsam fir. Hung with glass balls, walnuts, apples on the boughs. Hand-painted rocking horse. Porcelain doll. Teddy bear. The house is silent. My mother, Magda’s, hand-loomed dress. Eyelet petticoat, the colour apricot. An old family photograph on the stucco wall — in a garden, the […]
Most lawns are shit. People mow too short, mow one way, use dull blades, over-water, never topdress, grow the wrong grass. They let their rugrats run roughshod on shaggy, dun turf gouged with dead spots they’re too lazy to seed. Shot to hell, yards flower and flutter their hawkweed in the breeze. I’ve set my […]
My dear Mirchik, the days here are long. Hurray for grease-pencil daffodils. Hurray for slanting drop curtains of rain. Seven years listening to ‘Wild Thing,’ weaving, then waving a deep-pile Blue Peter flag. When little thread remained on the bobbin, so to speak, I turned myself into two children, three, four, so we could hobgoblin […]
Muskrat dives, heavy, into a ditch. The water-sound shimmers like sheep bells. (Yes, it’s really like this where I live.) Today the light is yellow-orange and very clear. Today I see a perfect yellow bird among the gray-brown crowd. If I were a hawk I’d dive at him: he’d taste so sweet.
My ex keeps asking do I want the cat back,
but my place is a wall short
and where pray tell to put the litter box?
There’s the country somewhere outside the car.
The country where the elm fucks the maple
and the elm broods as if auditioning
for a new PBS miniseries.
everything is a circle completing the pages
of history to repaint it
retranscribe the traditional legends
Palace flags and shoot-to-kill orders,
cardboard tanks and well-lit borders,
dungeons and lice, grenades and books,
photos retouched and high-kicking boots,
The archaeologist’s daughter grew up in tombs. She spent her early childhood crawling through the volcanic ash, which preserved time. Her father dug tunnels in the ground, uncovered death masks, stumbled upon bones of winged beasts, while her baby hands clutched the cold earth.