On the way to the house, we stopped at Ma’s. She sat in her rocker in the living room, reading magazines about Lucille Ball that she’d shoplifted from Meijer’s. We told her we were going to Aunt D’s, but Ma shook her head. Her sister was plain nuts, she said. Best to leave her be. How could we tell her that we loved Aunt D more? We kissed her forehead and agreed that Desi had been no good for Lucy, but hadn’t they made a sexy couple, and we were off, backing out the driveway in our Pinto, waving at the empty windows as if she had, for once, got out of her rocker and come to them to say goodbye.
Upon the premises of her shoulder, he wrote in ancient tongues. The territory of her stomach, a treatise to songbirds and men o’war. On the plains below, far and wide and swaying like summer grasslands, a singular promise, a vow like thunder.
He ate mozzarella cheese on wafers. In his white pajamas. On a cloud. Was he dead? Yes, he was dead.
Out across the frozen bay lie Little Pine, heavy with trees, smoking houses, sixty-five stories heading towards their own conflagration. Packs were loaded, flecks of snow biting into beards and cheeks. It would take hours to reach the island. And underneath, something peered up through two feet of ice. Something waited in the dark water.
Selling stories of secretive nature, she succumbed to the salaciousness of their sensuality.
Dissolve your sorrow – this too shall pass.
After dragons gorge on our guts, our armored legs strewn around like chicken bones, there comes the ensuing torchwork–a dozen rallied dragons making elaborate burnt labyrinths of our castle, our homes, our farms. My sword far behind me, along with my arm, I marvel into bloodied mud that no one has managed to decipher the pattern. Til now. It makes so much sense to my drooping eyes… Of course, a story, a moral… The ending right before us…
We tried so hard to hold on to the roast beef horseradish afternoon sun crusty bread lemon merengue pie memory even as the strong wind of time blew it from us, even as death touched us on the shoulders and pointed over the low hills.
The chewing of bones in a hidden pit: checkmate, my father would say. The last move had been mine, a cautious dash through blackened forests not ancient, just forgotten. Behind me, a border world of fallen logs, burned past decay.
I hoisted my quiver, last arrow ready, and crept to the pit’s edge.
my chiropractor is indian
with a formal english vocabulary under a heavy accent
so he can get away with saying these things
“you have such a lovely young body
that i do not imagine at your age you are single very often for very long
so make sure the next man that you see is spiritual”
i do not visit him often
because he does not keep his voice down
“every time you are angry, write a love poem.”
once i honked at a car
who cut off mine & scared me
the man got back into the other lane
rolled down his window, shouted, ‘i’m sorry’
i felt so terrible
most people are basically good
(but it’s such an easy thing to forget
He drew her breath into himself, growing more attracted with every molecule of her.
and he takes me in honesty
(and that is all there is to say on the matter)
I should spend every moment kissing you.
For all the times I couldn’t,
for all the nights I spent tossing and turning
wishing for nothing more
than the scent of you beside me,
and the freedom to kiss your temple
while you slept, unaware of the roiling
and growing and burning of my love
and my longing.
crack open the ribs
like the plastic cover
for your newest toy.
discard the things inside
you don’t need; instructions
and warranty, first.
enjoy until you grow tired
of its limits and downfalls and
quirks, then discard.
When the agony of breathing
usurps the treacherous pleasure
of your tongue grazing mine,
I’ll know I’ve been dreaming all along.
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