A piece of tissue-thin onion-skin paper to which you pressed your vermilion-inked seal, and so sealed my fate. Belying the fragility of the parchment, it is an iron-clad document that “releases” me—as if I were a prisoner or a caged animal—from the mother who wanted me and the motherland that did not, to cross the great, roiling ocean to call another, “Mother.”
In a cemetery, the same darkness as that between stars grows moss. Time unlocks tunnels and tunnels behind those rocks.
The Fog The fog came unpredictably as a gift (after the sticky sleep and awkward, stoic morning). I smelled toast but never saw it. The door closed and I cried a little in the bathtub. Right, the fog - Hanging over the hole where the Nets will play someday, sliding down Dean Street as a happy hour pickleback might at half-time of Germany vs. Austria. It came...
The Lilac Shadow of a Tree
I am you and who I see is me, if anything
happens it happens in me, it happens in you,
I see the lilac shadow of a tree and it seems
Mosquitoes attach themselves
to the undersides of leaves;
their husks litter trees,
unfold, always hungry.
They suck my limbs; their cries
bind my narrow bones.
The sawed-off edges
of their voices splinter,
by Megha Sood
Pain unravels slowly
like the filigree ends of a fern leave
unfurling in the dewy winter mornings
nature gives away the love
it stores and nurtures
by Larry O. Dean
Yanked from the freezer,
it doesn't resist, cubes dispersed
side of the pale blue plastic tray
weighted down by a half-
Now you see them now you don’t. Scraping by. Yardwork of archival stock.
Paramnesiacs cracking the greenstone with gold leaf.
Even at Hotel Viking and Omni Hotel.
Disequilibrium and dictum in a rendezvous.
Sinking into the profoundest headbutt. Twilight on Hanging Rock.
An offloading of off-paths...
There’s a kind of music that
plays when the warm water
runs down her hair
by David Dephy
I will never understand the world where:
The Life is the Death.
The Death is the Love.
The Love is the Lie.
The Lie is the Truth.
Rudy (after Gertrude Stein)
He’s a scene
in Aisle C.
He sees the Nile
in Aisle C.
See the scene of the Nile
Seen on the isle?
See the sea
seen in Aisle C?
The sea near this isle
isn’t the scene he sees.
but the isle he sees
by Margo Taft Stever
Every year, American factory farmers trap sows in cramped crates;
they birth and crush ten million piglets under the weight of their own bodies.