From the Book of Broken Odes Your sadness flutes through dowel holes cut by woodpeckers in flaking sycamores. They flutter bark and call the maple’s sons, the ones as well with sap and weep. And on their tears the mayfly’s tripwire legs alight to sup, its wings still – (flimsy fanatic, hardened heretic) – And…
1. Sorrow is a legion of worn women with crepe skin and black shawls and brooms. The whispering of the straw scrapes the floor as they quietly shunt dust out the door, shake the crumbs from billowing tablecloths that churn and coil in the wind, held tight by gnarled fists. When they are finished with…
His skin is tan and sweat streams down his face, transforming his collarbones into reservoirs and bronzing his face in a copper mask with the help of its compatriot, the sun. Standing with bare toes gripping the sandstone, he releases one side of the window to hold his hand like a visor as he squints…
I dreamed last night. The sky glowed maroon. Clouds flowed like Van Gogh watches in mist. I balanced my toes on the tassels of our flying carpet and muttered into my father’s ear, listing reasons to dock on land. But the mountains swung jagged beneath us, crusted with pre-dawn celestial glow, and the air…