On vellum fair his feather travels, back and
Forth crocheting dots, and lines and forms, dancing
Laces full of mysteries.
And from the scratch of the tip upon the piece
Of animal skin, coasts, mountains and pikes
Came to rise. Here and there a rough display of places
And lands came to life.
There’s a river past this hill and a forest
At its top. A town merchant teems with streets,
Roads, strongholds, oceans, an isle adrift.
Bedrunk with ink the map gets filled in as
The candlewax in small drops fall, ‘till
Darkened regions get a trail to lead in.
Knotting threads of a genesis he strives to braid
For storytellers, so raconteurs in bold black lines
Can tell enchanters and kings where they’ll lie.… ...continue reading
1. You do not exist yet, and my life is not complete.
3. You’re six months old, cheeks rounder than apples, and I reach out to touch you, The Creation of Adam. I prayed for you in the delivery room. Thanks for returning my calls.
5. We’re dancing on two single mattresses in your living room. The end credits to a Mary-Kate and Ashley movie loop ceaselessly. I don’t even know if you like this movie. We watch it every time I come over.
8. We’re changing in your bedroom after playing lions and my eyes wander— catch. You’ve been looping in my head like Mary-Kate and Ashley have ever since. I want my eyes to stop being mine. I recognize this feeling as shame.… ...continue reading
The corridor outside Señor Gil’s office was still and airless, as if even the building was holding its breath. Sunlight stretched across the tiled floor in pale bands. From down the hall, the faint clatter of cutlery echoed from the canteen, accompanied by a burst of laughter and the metallic slam of a tray against the counter.
Rivera stood beside a row of faded blue chairs – las sillas de la muerte, as the students called them. The death chairs. It was where they sat waiting – after fights, after failures – in that heavy silence that always lingered before a meeting with the Headmaster. Rivera didn’t sit.
His arms were folded, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the patch of floor where the light stopped.… ...continue reading
When I moved into my first apartment, my mother created a garage sale for me in her dining room. It was to help me start my new life. Onto the long wooden dining table, she piled mismatched plates, fancy platters, and strange old serving bowls. It was a vegetable medley of leftover dinnerware that overflowed onto the hulking wooden hutch in the hall. The hutch usually hosted only the side dishes my mother hated, like macaroni and cheese or anything my Aunt brought.
I found the Pyrex bowls pushed into the corner of the hutch, a set of three, each snuggled into the other like Russian nesting dolls, and made of milky white glass with bright turquoise patterns along the sides. I touched the stylized rooster with my pinky, feeling the raised bumps of the paint on the smooth glass.… ...continue reading
When I talk of home,
home is a beautiful girl
that has lost all her dignity.
I step in this cold chamber,
my feet kissing the ground
in a tip toe.
I enter this lonely room
like a discarded brick
standing in the vastness
of the rough walls—
walls that for long
pitched my skin off
to feed the raw hunger
of a fatherly figure.… ...continue reading
Tonight was going to be her last. The resident was certain.
It was difficult to believe a doctor without two years’ experience in the field of, well, anything as important as the impending death of a spouse.
Not just a spouse.
Catherine is still my spouse.
That is until I can invoke the “til death do us part” clause in our marriage.
That is, if she lives up to even that vow.
It all began when I met Catherine bowling on a Friday night twelve years ago. She was with a few of her friends. I was with a few of my friends. The lanes were crowded and she suggested the six of us should share a lane. That offer was made to all of us. … ...continue reading
Sophia grunts against the dead weight of her mother, chest pressing to shoulder in a mock lover’s embrace. Protestations follow, wallowing from both parties as she resists, pushing against the one she thrust from a womb now turned coat and traitor.
“Ay, mama. Please,” Sophia begs, voice muffled by the down pillows as they careen back and forth, the slow decay scent of funeral lilies wafting with every sway.
With the taught rubber band of her spine close to snapping, Sophia lays her mother down again and wriggles her fingers between the sweat and soiled linens until they meet in the middle, clasping them together. Now cheek to cheek, they pant the labor of their efforts in the shallow pools of their necks. Sophia waits to exhale on her final breath, then just as her mother releases hers, she yanks her upright and forward, using the last bit of her strength and marrying it to the bitter taste in the back of her throat.… ...continue reading