Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956
Paisley climbed out the attic window with a pillow to sit on and a Negroni in a sippy cup. Her cushion slipped on the angled asphalt shingle, so she planted her bare feet on the grit and leaned against the house. A mouthful of the cocktail blossomed on her tongue. Campari and orange peel softened the gin. The gin softened her. The night was mostly…
I. In the dust and the dirtof the orchard floor, there wasa beautiful red beetle — and it did not move. Amid a little world’s scatterand frenzy, here was something — a word for silentcomes to mind: unmoving. A letteruninflected. Not a breath,no release: just a consonant— still. He dug a finger into the dust andpushed the little red beetle in.A brush…
Photo by Leandra Rieger on Unsplash
Dressed in a medical gown, I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair behind a foldable cloth and metal partition. I stare at the stains on the partition, trying not to imagine their origins. A blonde man in a bright red shirt decorated with blue leaves towers over me, needle poised. He complains about my tiny veins. He removes his gloves with exaggerated flourish, deeply sighing…
in the days of your disappearance, the pink dogwoodblushes through my window. while the trees lean toward a whisper beyond the gleam of marbled glass, i hear yourise along the garden, suspended in the air between a skyless plight and nimbus. blame drizzles in this housewith an instinctual reminder: it’s been weeks now since you came around and i wonder about your frame, wonderhow solitude…