Poetry

Walk a Mile

Walk a Mile

By law, all men should spend time as women. But only a few at a time.
Talking to the Bones: Talking

Talking to the Bones: Talking

What of what’s happened here? There should be space for spaces sacred enough not to desecrate.
Lloyd’s Neck/Slink

Lloyd’s Neck/Slink

Scrupulous, astute: to the City he was sent (by) and sometimes went (with) Master Henry to shoehorn deals.
A Lopsided G-d

A Lopsided G-d

Another text, he wrote; tossed it off his tongue addressing “Negroes of the State of New York.”
Whistlelo

Whistlelo

Freedom?! I live in a lawyer’s clamped attic with Minnie and Cudjoe who ain’t free.
Visions

Visions

White peacock with tail of cloud and flame sweeps before us through blue wilderness.
Fourcast

Fourcast

If the weather looks bad, you should never use four-letter words.
Bird Men

Bird Men

He sits under the nightingale tree waiting to catch those notes which are heavy enough to fall.
River Salt

River Salt

The river running through my mouth bypassed my heart, the tongue dried up.
The Leaf Blower

The Leaf Blower

Gusts crept from under the peeling, lower edges of Earth’s wallpaper, crawling out as potpourri of debris.
Mobile

Mobile

Swilling coffee on the roof of a Motel 6, sleepy, thinking of ham and biscuits and another cup.
Animal Mother

Animal Mother

You love and give, and want it all, expecting nothing in return. Your kind’s love is as full of the angels’ as ours lacks of kindness.
The Dead Aren’t Quaint

The Dead Aren’t Quaint

I gathered a bottle of roses and wore a rayon red dress and sat in the oldest cemetery I could find.
If It Were Not So

If It Were Not So

As kids, we jumped on grandpa’s sinkhole, plywood-lined, dandruff-sporing bed and wore his chamber pot as a hat.
For Rachel—

For Rachel—

For Rachel Wetzsteon, a poet who left the week I said good-bye to Manhattan, committing suicide just as I drove off.
Chilindrinas

Chilindrinas

Down the hill I ran, rushed not by gravity’s trail, but the scent of kilned yeast and lard cutting clean through wet dirt air.
Du Monde

Du Monde

“Who won?” Mom texted. Mexico was playing Brazil in the World Cup’s last of 16. I didn’t have the heart to reply.
Like Writing a Bicycle

Like Writing a Bicycle

Writing is a lot like riding a bicycle. Not because it’s so easy to get back up on.
Bric-a-Brac

Bric-a-Brac

Outside, the barber pole, a swirl of symbolic spirals, and walk upstairs, touching, as you go, the espagnolette.
Gentleness

Gentleness

Before the dawn starts stirring far away, unravelling young clouds and lilac-gold, I will sit with you awhile.
Poultry Shears

Poultry Shears

Metal handles, large, the scissor for a thigh or a wing, when feathers flew up, sank like wishes, settled on the dirty floors.
Bishop Trees

Bishop Trees

She wants to ask the trees some questions, a solemn synod grown anciently deaf.
Bird Brain

Bird Brain

When I was a boy I swallowed a bird. Its black and yellow feathers poked out from my lips like a toy.
Semilunar

Semilunar

In the autumn, we fling open the windows and commune with the stars from your bedside.
July 1964

July 1964

She holds a flower, listening only to the small petals. They’ve all come outside to see the purple.
Ten Cents

Ten Cents

Once I saw a man, whose brother had been murdered, sidearm a coin into a fountain.
Transcendence

Transcendence

No difference between night and day when during sleep the world changes. You repeatedly pull yourself out and the crowd pushes you.
The Northern Lights

The Northern Lights

I never took your last breath; you never saw my first. So when I was young I invented fathers to take your place.
Centerpiece

Centerpiece

The women sit before a turkey, baked for hours, always counting the minutes, tapping feet to a tune.
The Spirit of the Horse

The Spirit of the Horse

There are deep impressions in the grass, tracks from your truck and muddied sod from the vet who “put him down.”
My House

My House

Let me give you my address so that if you are in the neighborhood you can drive by, see if they’ve repainted.

Upcoming

  • Kids on Division Street
    an essay by Sarah Riccio
  • Guided by Voices
    a story by David Rothman
  • The Lost Works of Pablo Müller-Wessely
    a story by P.J. Blumenthal
  • Irene
    a story by Dave Gregory
  • A Paper Clip
    a story by Siamak Vossoughi
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