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…
Browsing Category Prose, Poetry, and Art
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…
View from a Moon of Jupiter
We have been living here for years, and still they call this place “uninhabitable” in the news. “Too arid for growing crops,” they report. “The winds rage at night, with a noise alien even to…