She is leaning against the wall, sagging from no water. No one notices as her flower fades and the petals fall again. Hope springs eternally and naively as she shyly looks at the boys who pass her by. Invisible in spite of her bright colors. At the hour of one she gathers her druthers and begins her walk home alone. The lane is dark. She should be afraid, but she is invisible, so no beasts follow her. To her credit, she has not been picked by the Crooked Pond serial ki

The ice house raised out of the blank desert canvas like a wart, larger and uglier than everything around it, a boil on the finger of God. Miles and miles of pockmarked beige sand extended in either direction, sporadically dotted with mobile homes and cars raised up on blocks, a bleak canvas. Ursula stopped her car and pulled into the gravel parking lot. Inside, her sandals slapped loudly on a concrete floor. She approached the bar, a wooden top wrapped in aluminum siding, fl

Samantha is steadfast in her determination to tempt, as she holds a spoonful of peanut butter in front of Brutus’ face. Brutus looks at the spoon but knows he must not lick it. He has learned this the hard way from hours of practice with a dog trainer Samantha’s mother hired. He puts his paw in front of his eyes to block the sight of the delectable yet dangerous treat. When Brutus looks away, she scoops some peanut butter off of the spoon and traces it onto his nose.

On the slow train from Cambridge To Ely, I am sitting behind two Russians. A couple, they are locked in conversation, Oblivious to the fenland steppe outside, The rain-steeped, raven-black earth, This England in its midwinter rain. The diesel cars head north, transporting My loquacious Russians further on Through Norfolk, steel rails ruler-straight. I like their migratory instincts, their Resilience. I walk uphill through Ely’s puddles: The cathedral’s doors are ope

This boy vacuums the taxidermy. Moves the black nozzle over still-soft hair, over pink-veined ears, polished noses, thick necks. This one looks awfully offended. He’s gentle with the horns. Hardly skimming. Indignant. This boy wonders if the bucks his father shot still visit their quartered selves. And this boy wonders, as he tends to them as he would a carpet—going with the grain of their hair, never against—if they hate him. The

Baggage Claudia and Mark stand bewildered in the refrigerator section of the local market, gazing at the vast varieties of milk. “There’s so many to choose from,” says Claudia. “Let’s just get the regular one,” says Mark. “What does regular even mean anymore?” “The 2% one. That’s what I always had as a kid.” “Joaquin Phoenix says that it hurts the cows.” “The cows? You’re not even a vegetarian.” “That doesn't mean I can’t still be concerned about the cows!” Claudia opens the

god I confess. I do believe in god. Not an all knowing all powerful bearded old man on a throne in the sky. No. No. My god is androgynous, sitting near me In the coffee shop. Inconspicuous. Strong, but flawed. With my god, I press my face to the sky. And I feel the drip, drip, drip of the sun. Pram Each day I drive by her. She’s pushing an empty stroller. Leaves are falling carelessly. Who walks a vacant carriage? Little deaths of color often frighten me. This is not

Little Visitors Vonich visions occasionally book rooms in my head They often gift my lost & found with radiant surprises leaving transmissions—leaving transcripts—leaving oddities Leaving Aphorisms faded paintings Words kipple Leaving Interplanetary diagrams Forgotten emotional spectrums Ambient

Thing To her, the neighbor’s flowering bougainvillea is a reminder of the fondling she suffered at the hands of a different neighbor when she was five, the dim bedroom stifling with July heat, red and orange candy on the dresser, magenta blossoms trembling on a long slender branch beyond the window frame, the sky mute, blue, unreachable. To her husband, it’s an ordinary blooming plant, easy on the eyes, even glorious in the soft evening light when lavender air and

Tantalus I have turned when tired or tight to the twin who should be ghosting in on my blind side, disappearing like mist on a glass sensing his heavy breath like we've crossed a snowy field leaving no footprints, like a perfect crime when the house is quiet, I notice the train in the valley, a ticking somewhere specially, carefully making peace, I was told once the tale of the baby boy who never was of the rush to the hospital and the roadside birth, shielded by