Her brothers passed me at the dinner table like salt. Her sisters took me out of each other’s arms with fingers spread to protect my neck. Aunt Margie and Grammie Lorraine prayed three rosaries for me, on the black rosary from Ireland that hung beside the telephone in the hall. The same rosary that was draped on my uncle’s hands… Read more →
We could not have been much, two junkyard kids picking blackberries down by the log pond until our thumbs and tongues stung black with love and the footfalls of hunters down by the water made my shoulders narrow, made me step against you. This piece appears in our Fall 2013 issue (Vol. 60.1).
Marcus was a poet. A man pumped so full of lithium that his arms had swollen into sausages. So fat that I could hardly find his eyes. According to him, to his eyes, the world draped around the sky like a curtain. And who’s to say it doesn’t? That was his point. Marcus was also a philosopher. The man spoke… Read more →
Sweet, cherubic boy who loved a woman SOOOOOO much it warranted the high praise of the exclamation point, the x’s and o’s, even an elated smiley as though this love, this identifier of secret property rights had itself created a new language of written punctuation— where has the steel falcon of your idealism wandered? All the world was yours… Read more →
We didn’t make the rules: the rows of words laid down like hammered nails — they didn’t speak for us. The thistles lazed in sullen groups, their heads dipped down, they rolled their eyes, they crumpled brown and turned to ash, they crammed their elbows – doorstops – into dirt, they plead their case. We would not be the thistles… Read more →