Annie, dusting the earth in birdseed, cups her ear for the coos of loons that echo up from Bantam Lake—across the thistled yellow hill where deer would bow their heads, go rigid, then bolt into the curtain of trees.
The Fall To the first girl I ever kissed, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, but the rum and Coke tasted so good on your tongue. I’m sorry, too, that my hands were not soft against your skinny calves, crossed at … Read More
bangs and pops, in videos on screens a number says something’s wrong black writing: they had guns you wince a repeated trope: men in black stand before yellow tape in a bath, red and blue supine bodies float on frames … Read More
The night is dry & we confuse the bartender by ordering rotwein instead of rose. I’m using royal. I’m halfway through the glass when a 34-year-old man doesn’t ask to strip my skintight pink dress to light the years in … Read More
Something about the engineering of stairwells / makes you want to push someone down one. / Vertebrae snapping against all those / edges straight as rulers. Too violent,
“We pass it every year, the way the parade passes. Then we arrive home with the last notes of the song, evidence against our staying power, our packaging, upon return, found intact.”
Shall hold a life like a cupped palm, lash in the ocean. It knows the best exoskeletons protect the glass self sleeping inside. How to define oneself as a self that is only itself without the self it … Read More
