A year from now when you ask me to share the moment I knew, I’ll say it was the night at the fair when, queasy from the Greek fare and rides that spun us on our sides— “This must
Category: Poetry
The day was sullen, the sun cold, shaded gray behind the clouds, the air biting my skin. In front of me a tree, dead and gray, waiting for its spring revival. My friends, my coworkers, my brothers. It was
woke up sour on a thursday. i dreamt a fishbowl universe where mice cohabitate with monkeys except when the monkeys get hungry. this is not a metaphor. call it nature. darwin’s gift house. or maybe another weekday dream. did
Don’t be scared of those seven tigers. They only long to see the twinkling of wet jungle leaves. Look at them, dearest, aren’t they brilliant? Jewels left to drain out with the stale margaritas tossed out of their flamingo
Maybe I went back out to the car for your book just to hear the sound of the rain, just to let the smell of woodsmoke curl at my nostrils, tendrils of a different life mixing with my own.
A tangled heap of bones and hide cast into a ditch, this discarded infant bore only one blow before the end: flies are eager for that old blood, rooting into the already-softening flesh to succor and sustain their own
The last time, we have sex in his car. We drive out past the water tower on North Dearborn, take that left turn onto gravel. I bolt myself to the seat, ratchet my fingers around the headrest. One bare
Tampa sleeps beneath an interstate with a fifth of vodka in its roughed-up hand after another long night getting lit. In any case, you switch hornets with bats and realize with forgot, turns out it makes a huge difference.
The saline draining into my arm makes me even colder, my ring tightens around my finger as I fill up, a man named Mark is rushed in from the street, can hear the commotion while distracting a game on
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