It’s not true, he never chose women. I ought to know. It was Grenada and the sun falling behind the Alhambra was flaming lava. I could say I was too but some things should be left unsaid. But I remember his fingers on the buttons on the back of my neck, my skin burned as … 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
Ansel Adams If there were feelings for the sky, the word would be “wilder land” or “scorched landing.” A raven night with only ghost colored crosses, a sweating adobe night, the wind drumming a scat of sage and paloverde. Nothing can stay inside on a night like this, Arms ache for some thing to put … Continue reading
away like magic marker ink in the rain before it’s too late, before she stays in cities like Madison or Oshkosh—watch out in Minneapolis, in Green Bay Stoned on the lips of men with stranger verbs, with nouns like Dude and, Alike, dreaming from a bridge a poet could jump from, 16 arms around her, … Continue reading
Coe Review 