I watched as my younger sister Gertie reached out to grab the cicada. I can see it now, plain as day, the copper-veined wings, the devil-red eyes. It was sitting on the woodpile against the…
Browsing Category Prose, Poetry, and Art
Gertrude Stein’s Poodle
She. They. They call. They call and call. They call me Basket. Come, Basket. Good Basket Darling, cher, sweet Basket. Ce qui est la Panier? We play. But I am. I am more. I am…
Bill for the Second Line
Eight months after the accident, and I still call every night. Her scent, like roasted pears and cinnamon, has evaporated from the linens. Long strands of red hair which once coated our flat, now belong…
The Dragon
Arthur awakes in the golden wood. He has dreamed of a silver cup or a stone that fell from the sky. He cannot remember which and wonders if it matters. The campfire has gone out….
Backyard Weather
Raking eucalyptus leaves isn’t the same as raking oak leaves. October is different here. Yet the task commands our back yard and its brittle cold morning. Wood smoke and the distant buzz of chainsaws gathered…