This is no act of creation. What has the moth to do with anything? And what have we become in this turmoil of the dark, but selves open, again to wonder? It is only that we missed the weight of flesh. And though we are not always, we are, at least, here, longing, and we … Continue reading
Cosmos pollen loosens over trail shoes, spitfire dragonflies fan the tongue’s ridge. Dust covered with the needle pinned path, sole dyed with the green of smear grass. Zoetic forest, air licked by lizards ferns coated with insect fur, drowning in sound, a cuckoo call ogling frog drops its bulbous lid. Farmed fields caress the calm … Continue reading
I wrote B on my calendar to mark the days when you were gone. I’d color each square yellow or blue, careful to go outside the lines. Any film at the Forum, where I could reason the foreign and obscure. You’d arrive on the last day of color carrying tomes. Remember how they broke our … Continue reading
The water keeps leaving the same suicide note behind carved in the rock as it keeps falling over the cliff to its death in the pool below. Continue reading
“…how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again…” -James Joyce, Ulysses who let you watch them mornings when they dressed; who sent you up ladders; who left blood in back seats; who skulked across their parents’ … Continue reading
I sip trauma like hot tea And eat grief like leftover lasagna cold and stiff from the fridge. I swallow anger like old grapes, I drink pity like milk. Continue reading
I. Now it’s summer in our separate rooms, where in mine night renders the spackled drywall a constellation-like map of your freckles; so does your light make you think of my bellybutton? 2. Doubts. I have them. 3. You said, The sea always drinks the sun, but in the orchard, with myths of Newton and Eve … Continue reading
Yours, honey, were so perfect, a little rosebud mouth, not those puffed up blubbery things, my mother says when I pointed out the models’ collagen petals. “Roses,” my mother always says, “that’s what yours were, a nice tiny nose. That’s from you father. One good thing. Not a big ugly one like I’ve got.” I … Continue reading
Sometimes I stand inebriated by every small thing– swaying to little blue flowers on the side of a long stretch of highway in spring, or eyes trying desperately not to buzz at the pastel scent of laundry snapping time to jazz on the backyard clothesline. I belly up to the bar of pine and order … Continue reading
The smell of black soil drifts with every handful warms my palms I sift it through my fingers and listen to soft sounds of falling prairie grasses burned by raging fires, of buffalo bodies left to rot in the summer sun, and of the foreign loam brought here on high blown currents Continue reading
Coe Review 