There’s more to this half empty tin of peaches than my pessimism— help plot these points on old maps where A is my empty room and B is in the kitchen, a half empty tin of peaches We’re out with the metal detector and magnifying glass behind the...
“Tell me a story,” you say. “Tell me about mermaids big as whales that fight the giant kraken in the deep, or the day the Moon floated away from the Earth, or the girl with feet of glass. Tell me a story.” Your mouth hangs open, as if you could...
In the darkness, without a light, the room squirmed with memory. His bedroom appeared much the same as the day he had died — burgundy drapes poured like falling red wine over the window and snuffed the sunlight clean out. At nine in the morning it...
Where did they go, those whose frayed gingham curtains still snap in November winds, whose kitchen table is still set for the men to come in, whose house still stands in the silence of a drawn breath? Where did they go? In the fields, glass bottles...
These are the things he knows: The more languages you speak the fewer people you can talk to, and foreignness, like alcoholism, is permanent. If he didn’t know these things, Mr. and Mrs. Akaboshi would teach him. Why don’t you go back home, they...
You forgot to write down your schedule. I saw your empty coffee cup, your broken glasses by the bread box and the porch light left on. Your side of the bed was rumpled. I smoothed it out before washing your hair and dander from the tub and stubble...
I / [ɑɪ] / Rising diphthong I hear the one that starts low and far back, like the ‘a’ in ‘father,’ as the dictionaries tell us in their pronunciation guides. The vowel rises up and forward, in a negative slope. It stops when...
The human swansong is radioactive, bleeding out the afterlife in decay of full-bodied isotopes, of thin-bodied corpses, of animal bones touched by the godforce of a single metal raindrop— it was pewter-colored cancer growing on the face of the sky...
“It’s so quiet.” “Generator’s out,” Sanders replied, tapping condensation from the temperature dial. The needle didn’t budge. “It’s going to get real cold, real soon.” Jameson nodded, hugging his arms tight around his chest. “I can already feel it.”...
We sons and daughters of Yamato, Long-lost stalkers of Orihime, Hunters of Orion and Hikoboshi, have Returned; reduced to plastic figurines And precision-geared think machines Examining boxes of distraction Fixated on marking our time and terroir;...
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