I’m in my old neighborhood
shortcutting though yards
never past the witches’ house
once it rain frogs
& packing popcorn we thought
was snow
snow of course was snow
enough
snot on mittens
bombing the cars
on Grand Boulevard
hiding behind evergreens
thick with ice daggers
most of the houses
stayed dark inside except
for one room
old people lived there
couples or widows
and now I’m not sure
how much of what I remember
is made up … ...continue reading
It always starts with something: that glance across party rooms, an awkward handshake, your mutual friend’s introduction, or, increasingly, some popup on a screen. Those smooth bits of digital code hold out a kind of promise when you’re in a new and unfamiliar place. It says you’ve been noticed, it says you’re all right enough to someone who is willing to take that most human of jumps and spend an evening of their life with you in hope of something greater still.
London: an internship and foundation grant, 10 weeks sharing a Docklands Light Rail car with seemingly half the population of the world and a cramped youth hostel with a group of New Labour professional types. I’d switched over the location on my long-unchecked OkCupid profile for the occasion, telling myself that I didn’t think much of it, but really holding out a weird kind of hope that everything might just work out this time.… ...continue reading
1.
Clustered before fiery steel barrel
hands knotted oil rags of talk and beer bottles
warmed like fur-lined gloves
in crisp night air standing
next to the rained on, pissed on,
had sex on three-legged recliner
sitting in the back parking lot
of the corner liquor store
2.
We see him as levels of brutality
his grime, a second sweaty suit
eyes crossed like missed answers on the test
Gray plaits betray his gait as he pulls the squalor
of two garbage bags up on the bus like Sunday’s
chicken dinner placing them on the seat like giant
platters of mustard greens and fried corn
on finely polished wood. He looks around,
takes a seat, pulls out a book… ...continue reading
In my head, a mental timer ticked – eleven hours fifty-two minutes
A half dozen times over the past two weeks I begged, “Nothing special, please.” And today was no different.
“Why so sad?” she asked, dancing across the kitchen floor, a light hum spilling from her lips. After sixteen years of marriage, she was still stunning, and the tactic of using the hum to drown out my pleas. Well, I’m familiar with that ploy. But unbeknownst to her, I spotted the iconic yellow Post-it notes. And when she wasn’t looking I dug them from the trash. Written in her familiar handwriting, were names, numbers, and a recurrent date. That date was today. So, I knew she was up to something. And who could blame her, it was a special day.… ...continue reading
I have to admit: I wasn’t planning on writing about Living the Dream when I was originally scheduling my review coverage. The book I had initially chosen to talk about this month was a darker, more “literary” pick, but with the news covering natural disasters and violent protests, I needed to immerse myself in something lighter. Instead, I chose Lauren Berry’s debut novel, and I’m so glad I did. It was such a pleasure to get lost in the lives of twenty-something Londoners as they made messes out of their careers, romantic relationships, and friendships (and tried their damnedest to clean them up.… ...continue reading
“Give me your arm,” said the round, blonde nurse. “This will relax you.” She tightened the rubber tourniquet band, and slapped the vein out of hiding.
As she slid the needle out, Adam’s face turned a white sheet of paper. “You’re going to be OK,” he said. “Really. You close your eyes. Imagine something else.”
Whatever the nurse administered allowed me entrance into another, half-lit world. I was a slug on concrete. My eyes felt like two buckets of brown dirt. I almost didn’t realize the doctor had entered the room. … ...continue reading