Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956
This is the poem I always wanted to writeAbout trees and precipices and the PacificCoast in the state of Oregon, about momWho loved dad who passed away when itWas too early to know what fatherhood is,About how the individual doesn’t exist,Luis, whoever he is, you, whoever you are,It would be easier to dream our faces away This is the poem I always wanted to writeAbout…
Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash
I wondered if the Mediterranean ever got snow that night when he texted. U up? And I went, Who is this? GUNNER. He sent a winking face, U busy? I was writing out the Greek alphabet so I told him, Not really. He called then, waiting on the bench outside my dorm. Could I please let him in? Together, we walked a dank hall, climbed…
Driving home from the coast with sea spongesand sand in your hair, we don’t yet know how to die. THE SKYLINE IS TWO GAZES LONG Driving home from the coast with sea sponges and sand in your hair, we don’t yet know how to die. We don’t yet understand the languid metaphor of a sunset, someone saying goodbye and really when we cut these jeans…
His bony knees scrapetheir slow way towardthe passenger seat becausethere’s no rushing thisliving; the body is a congenitalgift, a boulder to impelthrough each day, its facelimned in rough beauty. Once tucked into the littleChevy, my father lowershis brow, waitsbehind closed eyes for words that refuseto arrive. SoonI will drive him to the testwhere they’ll shovean acid strip down his nose and into his stomach,because this…