Simhastha Kumbh | Five Photographs
Across Which the World
What luxury there is in what beesin Brazil have wept and Turkish beekeepershave culled from the transformed pollen of flowersof some German field I can not conjure; there in the interstices between neurons across whichboth memory and new thought leap, across which the world is reimagined from what could beto what isto what might, I…
Read MoreThe Pattern Beneath
The summer before her twin brother, Ned, was killed after stealing a vial of crack, Wendy stayed indoors. The heat broke records, riots erupted in neighborhoods she’d never heard of, building supers found newborn babies in dumpsters (the police suspected a copycat phenomenon), and humid glare pressed against office and apartment windows. Wendy blasted the…
Read MoreJane Doe Works for Me
The plight of all women with children employed outside the home is the same—childcare. A lucky few have grandparents who live close-by, and are willing to take on this responsibility, but many of us have to find a different solution, especially if we’re divorced. We need childcare, and we usually employ other women to fill…
Read MoreEpilogue: There Was a Fire Here
Excerpted from There Was a Fire Here (She Writes Press, 2016). October 20, 1991. Oakland, California There was a fire here. It started high above our house, on a hill facing west. No one knows for certain how it started, but a human hand set something burning and started The Fire. The fire incinerated, it…
Read MoreIs It Possible to Read Literary Magazines?
I did not expect to enjoy Harold Bloom’s book on death. Earlier this year, I was wandering the aisles of my local library, and I noticed his recently released collection, Till I End My Song. The book comprises Bloom’s pick of a single, solitary poem from one hundred poets: a poem that was either the…
Read MoreTwo Poems
In the Garden Among the almost roses,pruned to the quick but starting back,the sticking points their barbsas sharp as politics. Why cultivate the cuttingspike in things? Isn’t gloryits own reward. Deer don’t heedthe point’s forthrightness, anyhow,nor mortared mossy stonesof the surrounding walls. We note the flowers, in-bred,pedigreed as queens,await the transparencies of springstill missing…
Read MoreOil on Canvas and Ink | Five Pieces
Three Flash Fictions
Trick or treat You dress up as my ex-lover: curly, blond hair and Scottish accent coated tongue. We collect treats and I steal a glance or two, stuff it between the candies. When we reach home, I sense a presence inside me, a light wobble, a tremor. Two children are dressed as fairies. Their parents…
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