whitening the water till everything began to glow a scattering of pearls and pieces of beauty crunching between molars studded on the table of their broken dreams and voice of utter solitude flashed from the reddened teeth of their dying home where every jot and tittle of pain has turned into sorrow and wrath as the last gusts of sinking air drifted through the hole-punched painkiller pill mill sifting, hand-milled scarlet dust over the ravine of the wild crystal stair David …
bring me sleep in builders’ buckets used for wet cement- pour it over my bed, my back. bring me sleep on a measuring spoon, a gleaming elixir tipped & drooled into my mouth, my ears. bring sleep in sheets of foil wrapped around my feet like two plucked birds prepared for roasting. bring me sleep in the first birthday card you ever wrote me; its brash expletives of love making an abuse of me. bring sleep from under your car hood. funnel its fume in one long gauze of grey gas. bring …
I wonder who it’s for? I’ve always hated oranges. I used to watch my aunt peel them over her speckled brown ash tray, the Virginia Slims slowly buried in citrus. They stained her long, unpainted nails, and it seemed as if she was peeling away her own bitterness with every thoughtful puncture. I should clarify: I’ve always hated the taste of oranges, of searching my mouth for the angry seeds. The texture—too overwhelming. But I would still mimic my aunt and pretend I loved them as she did, …
Jane carrying her tray of corned beef hash into the dining hall. Jane with two small glasses of milk. Jane sitting at the far end of the table next to Rosalind, Francis, Gerdie and Viola. Jane not saying a word. Jane dressed for dinner, as always, in a plaid skirt and dark blue cardigan. On her feet: baby blue thin hospital slippers. Jane smoothing a paper napkin across her lap, carefully, neatly, as Rosalind bullfrog burps beside her. Jane taking one small sip of milk. Jane looking as if she …
Behind the basement stairs was a box of swaddling blankets I know we tossed last summer. I threw them out. I sit on them now cradling my foot like a broken child. It’s terrible how we lose imagination. Maybe it’s nerve we lose. Is there a difference? I was ten, maybe twelve, when my friends and I played this game from the roof. The first kid up the backyard tree, I remember, earned first jump. Whoever came in last got stuck below as quarterback. The idea was, you take turns leaping from …
The first time you fuck is on a Saturday night turned Sunday morning. After his face finally re-emerges from the back of your thighs, he asks, am I going to catch something from this? And you want to reply with HIV, herpes, the whole works, but instead you scoff and say, what type of person do you take me for? He laughs and the cross hanging from the chain on his neck trails along the length of your torso as he lowers back down on you. You gave it up so fast you were sure he wouldn’t come …