I tore up the paper. Coughed to cover the sound. Opened up my phone and played a video on YouTube of two service dogs chasing each other. The ad that played after was for cough drops.
I want to be the one who gets daughters / into colleges with full rides, / brings the Go-Fund-Me page to completion
I passed by dried limes, herbs, fresh cheese, honey combs, lentils, henna and walnuts. I stopped to ask for a sample of red plum paste that tasted so sour all the muscles in my face twisted up. The vendors laughed at me kindly. I wanted to disappear into everything. I wanted to run away.
I find the white-eyed bird with the red beak halfway up a column of rock, and although he is dazed by the gathering heat of the day, I manage to coax him into the cage without difficulty. He is around a metre in height. He has grown since we last met and takes up most of the cage. I would like to feed him but I haven’t seen any mice for a while.
I search for a good sleeping posture as night edges closer to business hours. I lay on my side, then on my stomach. I hang an arm off the bed. I flip the pillow to the cool side and back. I think about Adrienne, how soft the blankets on her bed are. I try and try, but I can’t get comfortable.
“She’s doing better off without us,” his father said. “It’s this guy right here that has to pick up his shovel and dig for the family.”
Tabs open on your screen right now: 2 email accounts, VIDA’s website, twitter, an article on theGrio about strippers in NYC going on strike to protest the ongoing racism
A coat check girl with deep pockets sits across from me. She’s excavating the night’s ticket stubs, dropping them on the table next to the double-wicked candle that conflates
FLOOD DIARIES:ENTRY ONE there is still so much i cannot parse / while a blue-black wolf paces my bedroom window / the unfinished painting of a calavera woman behind
Silent Friends The two men flail on the balcony. Sky glitters behind them. One with goalpost arms. The dork with a toilet bowl mouth. Not potty—who said that? Just
Like a penny into a fountain, she fell from the top deck of a cruise ship into the black Caribbean. Tink, poor Tink, prepubescent, precocious, ten-year-old Tink, the most
Originally appeared in La Quinzaine littéraire, numéro 363, 16/31-1-1982. Translated by Madeleine Maillet It took a serious enough depression, lasting several months, for me to get past the first fifty
TRANSLATED BY Julia Johanne Tolo Tired, unquenchable, taut against a blanket of warm wool. Jitter like heavy fire back and forth through my body, burning me dry. All this time
I turn the corner and someone has been here, picking up clover, invading front lawns, rebelling against privacy. A rat’s corpse as slender as a leaf lies at my
The almonds I think grew slowly on a tree (a wild almond tree) along a curved road near a rounding hill, perhaps in Lebanon, but that may not be—no mind.
…and none of them useful or meritorious a much-scraped palimpsest of things–lives, maybe–
MOSCOW SUBURB Blocks of gray buildings in Tyoplyi Stan a windy suburb in the southwest of Moscow where Napoleon’s army used to burn fires to try to survive the
For Tibor Gábor Gajdics, 1930-2014 Stewed plums in cottage cheese dumplings squirt sweet explosions in my mouth. I left my flat on Wesselényi utca beside the Dohány Street Synagogue and
She has passover in the lower case She has angel belief she sends ahead and thinks she hears bowling some night storms
They laughed with mouths open too wide. Soon, she’ll get up from this field
And yet some leaves more complicated than this. And yet.
I’m trying to know how swallows know to build nests from mud.
Bills come in like falling leaves. They soothe me: a record of where I've been, as if the things I have might possibly define me. Sometimes I look at the
Townspeople (the other side of an old poem) town carnivals and songs. no one waits for tomorrow. drizzle. packed streets. a jumble at your feet. we all depart our dwellings
They can’t find a working lighter, so they take all the shreds of tobacco out of their cigarettes.
HE WOULD LEAVE HIS APARTMENT IN THE CITY It is rumored in his later years he would leave his apartment in the city and drive through the night to arrive before
LITTLE SUNSLittle Dude looks out the window as we approach Orlando International, at the wash of winking blue lights that tell the airplanes where to land. “A story,” I suggest.
(She sings softly.) Happy Birthday Nadia.
The moment has fallen and--what a shame!--it is forever. What a kind of distance! And at your shadow’s fingers.