Last night a hand came out of her fish sandwich. She sat in the damp leather chair, staring down at the yellow paper, dark red bread. There were hard fries, like straw rocks, to the right, and an orange (in color, not taste) drink to the left. All the others were eating silently. It was a white man’s hand she noted with blinking eyes. The…
FIRST SNOW. FIRST SOUL. by David Dodd Lee
It wasn’t so much the puppets— They were dead in the sewers hung up along The curbs— Or even a big wedge of corned beef. I picked up twenty knives before I found one heavy enough Because the heart’s gnarled meat—you know this, right? The flowers Blooming along the windows in the elementary school Blistered like soft blouses … Man looked at herself in…
Inside Looking Out
Inside Looking Out
A DOMESTIC PRODUCTION by David Dodd Lee
A lot different if you spread them side by side. Sheer mouths, see the mountains, stacked to your breast. Each bad feeling goes into the blender. Your middle pieces get hungry. That is a sing-songy memory of bed-wetting you’re torturing there. First it eats a plant, sniffs the mailbox, waits in the hallway. Wants something soft, repeatable.
Paradox Basin
There is fire on the opposite shore. It is the ferryman burning his oars. There is clatter from the opposite shore. It is the ferryman dismantling boards to feed to the current. He knows what suffices in this canyon. He knows, in all the desert far above there is not fuel enough. Foreshortened, half-lit, already I claw sheer rock and rise.