You are nineteen. It is a year after you broke up with your first girlfriend and
now your first girlfriend is standing above you as you kneel on the ground.
And while she is your ex now, she is still your friend because you need her.
Specifically, you need her to shave your head.
She shaves your head for you, and you finally feel butch—like a real lesbian.
As if there is a lesbian norm. And if there is one, then you are it with your
shaved head.
You have finally decided to shave your head because the older woman you had a
crush on, Emma, simultaneously broke your heart and pissed you off. This is
how you rebel. This shaved head that you know Emma would hate.…
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The minister was over for dinner
Our precocious five-year-old son
thin blonde hair flying off his head
leaned over the table with an intent expression
and asked the Reverend
Do you know that there are over a hundred-thousand Gods?
…and some of them have elephant heads?
I wondered:
How did he come up with this shit?
A powerful imagination he had
I couldn’t see it as a good thing
especially after what happened next
The Reverend
caught by surprise
inhaled a piece of brisket
He choked
choked to death actually
neither me nor my wife knowing
that maneuver when someone chokes
My wife ran out the front door
her grey and blue plaid dress flying behind her
but by the time someone got there
–the veterinarian
who’d been seeing to one of the neighbor’s calves–
it was too late
The Reverend lay on the floor
his face blue as an elephant-headed God’s
My son learned that there is information that should
not be shared
secrets that need keeping
My son learned that elephant-headed Gods don’t want
Baptist preachers to know about them
They wanted their elephant-headed secrets kept close
– Mitchell Grabois
…
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Funny how vicious a cycle life is, isn’t it? It’s sadistic, almost. We spend most of it picking
up broken glass, trying to make sense of a deadly jigsaw puzzle that only leaves you
bleeding in the end. This is glass that, even when put back together, makes a window
that’s impossible to see out of.
When we finally slink away to lick the wounds, we return to broken sunshine glittering off
of the once again shattered window. Even though our old wounds are scabbing over, we
try to rebuild until there is nothing left but naked flesh, no protecting skin left, all blood
and exposed muscle…
But if we could only stop to see the way that the wicked sunlight shines off of our wrecked
windows or the way that the moon makes the pieces glow at night, then maybe we could
rest for one single moment.…
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We called them his fish pants. If mom threw them in the hamper at night when
Knuckle stripped them off, he followed her and fished them back out. When mom
tried to sneak in to his bedroom after he was asleep, he took to stuffing them under
his pillow. They billowed out a chicken-of-the-sea stench that gave them their name
and lingering importance that pronounced them before they ever entered a room or
left it.
Knuckle was the youngest of seven in our brood. He went through challenging
phases. When he was two he was a sweeper. He carried the broom everywhere and
swept away at the floor, the rug, our desks and our dog, Shana, who wasn’t as easy
to contain. She kept biting at the bristles, which frustrated him and got in the way of
his progress.…
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I
A Different Kind Of Summer
—–They were at the summerhouse on the lake. Every year her father explained to her
about the old well.
—–“You mustn’t climb up there or remove the cover. If you fall in, Sylvie, you can never,
ever get out.”
—–The rounded, grey stones were surrounded by high weeds and briars. Once, she had
seen a long, thick, black-silver snake slither around the base. Sylvie stayed far away from
the well.
—–This summer, Sylvie’s mother would be commuting. She explained to her five year
old daughter, commuters take the train into the city to work during the week and return
at the weekend to be with their cherished, delightful daughters. Sylvie’s lower lip
trembled. …
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The same way that Winter
Wraps it’s cold fingers around my throat,
Is the same way it feels when you hold me.
I can’t breathe,
I can’t think.
I am frozen,
I am yours.
You are the Winter,
You blow right through me and chill my bones.
You raise goosebumps on my arms and legs, but most of all…
You are home.
You see, I was born in the arms of Winter.
I thrived inside a frozen womb,
I was raised inside of frozen igloos,
And learned to walk on ice.
I am home,
Even though the wind whips and burns my face.
I am home,
even though snow seeps into my socks and boots.
Even though I hurt,
Even though I freeze,
I am home.…
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Commemoration
Juliette sat with stuffed animals in the darkness. Her mother placed the cake on the table; a pink and white “9” rested in its center, providing the only illumination in the room. A droplet fell onto the frosting. Her father had just opened a window and finished taping another red streamer to the ceiling. He threw more confetti into the air, hoping she would become lost in laughter. Some of it landed on the cake, most of it on the table, and a few sparse circles covered the framed black & white photo of Elizabeth playing in a sandbox. A plate lay in front of it. Juliette saw the candle flicker in the glass, an orange streak of life in the space between them. They sat together and watched the flame as it danced around the wicker.…
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