So, you want to cook a perfect omelet, huh? Let me tell you, it’s an art. Not just anyone can master the delicate dance of eggs in a pan. It’s like a culinary ballet, and you need to be the star performer. First things first, crack the eggs. None of that shell nonsense – we’re […]
The Perfect Omelet Read More »
Her unkempt hair covers her face and her little hands flail asserting her disgust This will be the first time he holds his tongue The first time he dances with such an innocent girl He’s used to rough used women Used to screaming about their imperfections Sending them back inside their cage Cage the savage
The women who could not bear children at first: Sarai, Rachel, Rebekah, Hannah,Samson’s mother—name not givenElisabeth—John the Baptist’s motherand Michal—the one that got away— Their persistent askingamidst improvisationswas the knowingthat they were capable,deserving and worthy.Such confidence! Had they believed they were barren, truly, they would not have eventuallyconceived. Day and night they travaileddriven by intensity
“They Birthed Nations, Word Says” Read More »
Candies in a dish shaped like a leaf. Caramels with creamed sugar in the center, the kind somebody continues to make today, though not sold at every counter. One in the mouth would declare Sunday night, and each week when we had gone as a family to share dinner with my grandparents. Me. Brother, three
Trust In my first weeks of motherhood –a butchered belly busy reassembling its hip-wide slice,drenched in the effluvia of two,heavy, wet breasts needed and kneaded and needed,sullen, sleepless, alone with this vague, clinging little life,this six then eight then ten pound parasite,too heavy for my ruined body to lift –I was told to trust my
“Trust”, “graveyards and parking lots” and “Might” Read More »
“What do you think of this painting by Manet?” I’m studying vibrant green stems visible through a cylindrical glass vase filled with luminous water. The stems are surmounted by a colorful bouquet of varying blooms on an almost grey background of oil paint tinted with lavender. The water seems to reflect an imagined late afternoon
Your Wolf Heart ~after a line in Jack Gilbert’s “How to Love the Dead” The teeth bow out like waves hitting the shore.I have an inside voice, tongueless and mute.A wildflower forest : A century of weeds.When we had no money, we broke the bank my momhad given me and ate tacos for a week.
He has never-met a bad-Sofia. Do you-want-children? What would you-name-your-daughter? She has known him for five minutes, maybe ten. Sofia, he-thinks. Sofia is a-lovely, lyrical name. Sasha can’t pronounce his name so she calls him you. In fact, she can’t even remember what he told her his name is to begin with. Her lipstick has
A montage of maple, sassafras, birch, and beech trees. Leafywaves, ridges, saws, hand and mitten patterns cling to branches by thin support.Tulip tree petals, fluorescent orange and yellow, form ranksalong the path sun creeps like wisteria along the trail. A riderpushes down the pedals of her scratched mountain bike.With rain and change of seasons, a
“On Mountain Biking” Read More »
Van Gogh tried killing himself, but people still talk more about his severed fucking ear. He also headed South of France, someplace I’d like to go. Maybe not to get somewhere or get away from someplace. Like point A to point B. I’ve never been on one side or the other, more or less in
“Listen to the Hot Air Balloon Talking” Read More »
