Hand- me- overs from a learned brother,
they lay cracked and misshapen
in the bottom of the dark closet;
a symbol of some latent sadness.
It was there, but hidden from
the innocence of youth.
They spoke of a man in need of
something above and beyond the
benefits of comfortable footwear.
I can remember his facts.
He never drank milk.
He denied my sister a trip
to the shoe store in the snow.
He wouldn’t say why, couldn’t reveal
the fear, the compassion. He was
unable or unwilling to console his wife
when her anxiety surfaced late at night.
So, he would do deeds for the needy. … ...continue reading
“I fucking loved you, you know?”
You hung up. You didn’t have to pick up you know. You could have just ignored the call. Maybe you deleted my number. Maybe it was the tense I used. But I called to—I think I called to apologize—not to tell you how I still loved you. I mean, I guess this entire situation proves I’m a little masochistic, but I’m not fucking suicidal.
Shit—no, don’t leave. I promise I have a point.
I was wrong. I hurt you. I can be man enough to admit that. I made promises I couldn’t keep; to you, to me, to our families. I was blinded by you and your smile and your ambition and how you would give your life for that stupid dog.… ...continue reading
Winds cut through thick fleece,
the sky is dirty-cotton-ball gray,
but it’s two days past the vernal equinox.
You want to see the daffodil fields.
We heave the youngest dog into the back seat
but leave the older two behind,
ask the iPhone, “Where is Wye Mountain?”
Pointing the sedan toward the gold, we go.
Twelve years ago
the daffodils were blooming
in St. David’s, Wales,
for the saint’s day.
Anointed, we were honeymooning,
touring the ruins
of the Bishop’s Palace,
clambering up the split levels
of former sanctity,
wondering about the hearts of the holy
buried below.
Bickering now,
we forged out of town,
on a road we’d never traveled,
but you had cycled this way with a friend.
“There’s the turn to Houston,”
you pointed.… ...continue reading
“Cara?”
“Oh!” she blurted, looking scared, then hesitant on the campus sidewalk. “Uh.”
It was our first meeting since I witnessed her at College Girls Gentleman’s Club. I’d left with downcast eyes. She’d dropped my class.
I wanted to say curiosity — I’d never been to a strip club — had dragged me there with my fellow teaching assistants. That I’d been embarrassed for myself, not her. That her withdrawal from freshman comp had saddened me since she was a great student, a smart people-pleaser destined for success. That I’d fretted about her. That I’d nurtured a crush even before seeing her Victoria’s Secret figure in only a thong and high-heels. That I’d been so jealous for her. That I’d returned to College Girls many times hoping to speak with her, only to find her absence more poignant than her presence.… ...continue reading
We convene to read from a book that can’t even settle upon its own name. We arrive as realists to a place and time where reality eludes us. I summon you to try and make sense of the nonsensical, to impose structure on that which flows like water through our hands, to explain the unexplainable.
Bruno Schulz, an art teacher and painter in Drogobych, Poland, scribed three literary works of art and then was shot dead by a Gestapo officer – because he was another officer’s tame Jewish painter. Even his death is rendered ambiguous, since he had a revolutionary nest of Poles that wanted to smuggle him to freedom. He chose what he had known all his life: a claustrophobic death in a provincial town that had claimed him and brutalized him in its cloistered grasp.… ...continue reading
I drove to the Skyway when I lost my job and I got pulled over for speeding on my way there. When the officer gave me the ticket and told me to drive more carefully, I nodded and called him sir with no sarcasm whatsoever. When he drove past me to continue south on I-275, I crumpled the ticket and tossed it into the back seat.
I pulled off at the pier. I got out and I opened the trunk and got out my rod, bucket and tackle box. I took off my tie and tossed it in the trunk before I slammed it shut. I felt the sun warming my face as I walked slowly toward the bait shop. I would shut my eyes when I walked and tilt my head up at the sky to feel how lovely the sun felt instead of fluorescent light.… ...continue reading
I am contemplating suicide, or rather the different ways I could commit it, when I hear a knock at the door. I open it and a man stands in front of me. He is tall and a bit scrawny, his arms hang long, down almost to his knees. His blonde hair rests just above his shoulders and looks as if it hasn’t been washed in several days. His eyes are a deep brown, almost black, but they are big and inviting—not friendly, really, but maybe passionate.
He says he is here to save me. I tell him that I wasn’t actually going to do it. I was just thinking about it. But I am a bit confused as to how he could know what I had been thinking.… ...continue reading