Orhionmwon
there we were, within reach of the river’s grasp, discarding our clothes on the bank adjacent to our clay pots. PUT_CH_HERour well water had receded into the earth, compelling us to P_C_Hstretch across the woods for waters, & on discovery of Orhionmwon, our first thought was to dive— frolic in …
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on a list of games that buddha would not play, one is [that he abstains from robbery]
Once I watched a screen-ready trilogy of deer graze my front yard in Iowa, only by the blobbed bulbs of their eyes in the dark. In the dark, our eyes have the rods to see only in black and white. A triad: a father, son, and some downed spirit. Forgiven …
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Machine
Say we do this again say we know it best with our eyes closed, oiled fingertips the thing we want is machine is mechanized tongue; in these words, in their primary shape I betray the evergreens; nothing can stop the industry of …
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White Gladiolas in an Unused Jar
The white gladiolas were planted late, in haste, and bloom now haphazard from their weight and too much wind and wet. All summer, this weekly deluge—sometimes days’ worth of droplet to drizzle to downpour to gutters running, storm drains rushing. The season nearly gone. I’ve picked the horizontal and cockeyed. …
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Child Poetica
For the Son I Never Had The way you say “air conditioner” slays me and when you’re older, the way you cut the wheel PUT_CHARACTERS_HEREEEEEEto make a corner. Why shouldn’t we talk about what never was? Not because of a lack of love, but because of something more opaque the …
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Pier 60
Hurricane Billion Dollar Betsy roaring toward New Orleans will kill 73 people tomorrow, but this afternoon, September 8th, 1965, all these Florida boys see are bigger waves in the Gulf than they’ve ever seen. Denny, Rob, Sammy, and my dad are four wet cores of themselves — fifteen, growing into …
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Roost
When you see your mother on the floor, tears flooding splintered cracks, ¿what do you tell her? ¿What do you tell your mother when she says quiero volar de aqui like birds? Jumping nest before their wings flesh out. Crash on asphalt. Waxy beaks open then close. Open close. ¿What …
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She
when the air cools at dusk, scent of primrose on chiffon. I press my face to her shawl, inhale remnants of warmth. She is music floating up from the dining room, where melody dwindles to absence. I recoil against the fire-glow end of her cigarette. She, the honeyed hall light …
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The apple tree
in my childhood yard was felled. The fruit would rot, attracting wasps and yellow jackets. Open mouths tore at the pulp. I stepped in the mushy mounds. I don’t notice the hollowed tunnels in my own apple heart that you burrowed through. Your entry and your exit. I have forgotten …
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