Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956
It’s fall in the garden and the leaves on the basil freckle with black.I am thinking of the signs of my father dying. It’s easy enough to see in my plants; the cilantro, albeit cold-clever, eventuallyblossoms with seed one crisp January morning. Its leaves, like a diseased heart, grow smaller and smaller, duller and dulleruntil it can do nothing but shove the white flowers, tiny…
I.I feel the tickle on the pink of my lips before it touches my mouth. Anticipation is only possibility. Idon’t bite. The peach sits in the fridge, the skin too perfect to puncture, if it sits long enough it willrot, mold freckling the surface.II.I was married ten years before I told my husband I was bi. Told is perhaps too purposeful a word,dripped is more…
One evening, after dinner, Wazili shook his head. “The streets have become unpredictable lately,” he muttered. He finished wiping down his bicycle with a piece of cloth under the dim light of a bulb hanging from a wire attached to the roof pole. The shanty building had a single main switch, and tenants had to contribute to an electricity fee in addition to their rent…
Photo by David Clode on Unsplash
for Wendy 1973-2019 Photo by Sirisvisual on Unsplash