Henry leaned back on his leather recliner holding a cellphone and credit card. He wrote online reviews and rated products according to a system of caterpillars. More caterpillars meant more butterflies, ergo, a better chance of succeeding on the open market. Any day now, he hoped to hear from some investor interested in taking his site viral. He listened to the Home Shopping network. Now an infomercial about a…
It’s not the boy who arrests me, it’s the man I recognize above the boy, a man on a balcony who’s dropping a wet skirt to dry over the steel rail of it, and a blouse, and a towel, and other laundry, and then blue sheets.
Only your great grandmother came straight from the kitchen to the table, still stinking of brine and iron. Resplendent in her Shabbos skirt, matte ocher blood becomes evening gloves.
“The third indicator of spring is the arrival of prospective businessmen. They enter the woods and go from tree to tree, soliciting ‘lucrative opportunities’ to the area. One of them had long legs and a short torso. His skin was smooth and reflective.”
“He flourished the tickets last Saturday…You were stepping out of your slip-ons. The daycare was a mess; the babies had passed around a cold and their whines stuck in your head, like the shadows bodies leave on walls after explosions.”