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There are two stories to this space. There is us, in the evening, making dinner at ten pm. Starving from daily activities. Wearing partial outfits of t-shirts and boxers (be careful not to burn yourself), as we spin in sock feet.
Read MoreThe farmer was out mending fences.
Anything broken or buckled or rotted
was his domain.
Two days into a cold snap I made steel-cut oats for breakfast. It was the kind that takes 30 minutes and a lot of stirring to make. I had woken up early since I slept alone that night.
Read MoreWhen I'm good I'm great. I mean it, I get it. I'd want me too. Not to sound– no, happy to sound arrogant, or conceited, or whatever. Extra. When I'm on form everyone in the room, male, female, or otherwise, myself very much included, would want to lick my tight stomach, and I know it.
Read MoreBecause in the beginning there was
“this deer was alive not 12 hours ago
now get your tickets and feed your family tonight.”
The ice in the window melted itself into teeth,
like a sea monster left their dentures in my kitchen.
Bold Brazilian Lisa
behind the bar,
Jonnie’s Scottish singularities—
bored with Traditional,
Honey-Brown hopes of Hoegaarden
tap eternal.
I remember you dancing at the wedding: your neat feet and fancy heels twisting over the geometric patterns on the parquet. As nimble as a goat. You asked me: “How do they measure the height of a mountain?”
Read MoreAs a child I was unafraid of thunder,
spiders, high tree branches, scraped knees,
the imps and fairies who bartered my loose teeth for coins.