The boy in the TV has golden streaks like honey in his hair and two blue diamonds for eyes, face open like a window streaming sunlight. Watch as his brows furrow over inscrutable hazel orbs, jet black hair slicked smooth and reflecting pale moonlight. The boy in the TV is a shapeshifter, and now he has your attention. The boy in the TV accumulates every fantasy you’ve concocted and reflects them all back to you, a beautiful mirror of your mind. He reminds you of a boy you dreamed …
slimy & joy-wet. you're night's work of art, hatched from nothing into the belly of a jaw—softening the hard ground of language. your pronouns: ruffled between edges, as the heft threatens to refund your mother in past perfect tense. my tongue, raised towards your image—spills the purple consonant where a curve ends. say, I howl into wetness, shards of you grieve out in thanksgiving. you, scolding bronze into portrait. light waylays me, till I whiten & duplicate. whiten & play …
No heavy machinery could tame the sandy unpaved road outside Babcia’s Augustów house. A grunting tractor pulling a drum came through every couple of months, but soon all who walked the road could feel its sting in their calves again. Perched on the northeastern tip of Poland, Augustów was an island carved out by four deep lakes and a few rivers which made the area’s map look like a connect-the-dots completed by a tipsy child. A dense forest surrounded the town best known for …
I always questioned who my father was before the hair decided to settle between his chest, Before he was sentenced to manhood, Was he a believer of far-off things? Would we have been friends? Did he fight for possession of the brownie whisk with the entire fist of his mouth? I wonder if on his road, He carried his hopes in his bindle, And if he will ever get around to leaving them wide-open again. Dad, You are a mighty thing of your father’s distance and your mother’s vocabulary, But who …
He was on emergency leave when it happened, home in time for his mother to enter hospice, greeted at the airport by volunteers waving little American flags. I was “home for Christmas,” my meager belongings stored in a CubeSmart storage unit while I figured out my next move. Danny had started stealing my stuff to sell for cash hoping I wouldn’t notice, waiting outside the blood bank for it to open in the morning so he could sell plasma after his latest attempt to get clean failed. I’d gotten a …
As frail as I am with my bandaged head my stumbling abnormality of gait I can still lift my son a leg up into the crotch of the Kwanzan cherry. I can still wrap my one good arm around his waist and heave. I can stand there at sunset spotting him in his tiger-faced rain boots his firefighter’s costume complete with helmet and ear-piercing red whistle (the hatchet had to go). Where low sun gleams in the eye of an exoskeleton a tiny mirror of cicada reflects the setting sun and worn- out father …