walking down a new street at night, I lost a poem. Drizzle beaded on lampposts; mist circled the bare bulbs suspended like electric moons. Silent houses crouched together, warmed by glowing porch lights. An airplane disappeared behind cloud smudges; dripping elms flanked the yellow “No Outlet” sign. In the sodden dark, the vast alone had shrunk to one block, one house on a leaf-wet street where someone once lived.
I wish I could live in a soap sud And swirl in the off-white basin Lit above by three bulbs: Two warm and one broken I would rise and fall and ride the thin film of water Buoyed in a kaleidoscope of colors But there’s a tremor in the delicate walls Because a voice booms behind me 化学的东西不是好的 My own, much quieter You’re wasting time So I turn on the faucet And let the stream of water drown them out Once again I reach for the iridescent pink liquid soap 1-2-3-4-5 Once again I reach for the iridescent pink liquid soap 1-2-3-4-5 Once again I reach for the iridescent pink liquid soap 1-2-3-4-5 Then I dry my hands on my pink washcloth Before retreating to my room with its pink curtains Where I sit criss cross applesauce to confront The piles of paper on the unforgiving porcelain floor Is this how Psyche felt while sorting seeds?… ...continue reading
At the Flagstaff Fiber Fest, I arranged jewel-colored skeins of yarn tightly next to each other. Was I expecting a sellout? Not anymore. After tending booth at the biggies: the Wild and Wooly Yarn Fest, the Maine Fiber Frolic, the Black Sheep Gathering, etc., etc., etc., my inventory remained overflowing like detainees huddled in Mylar blankets.
I hadn’t pivoted to cotton like so many. In February, when the red light/green light tariff game began, I remained true to my brand. I naively dreamt of continued abundance. My business had thrived during Covid. Surely, forced out federal workers would need something to fill their time and would welcome fibers pleasing to the touch.
In spring, I bought dyes from China: the blues (pigeon, royal, indigo); the reds (carnation, jasper, ruby); the yellows (downy chick, lemon, topaz).… ...continue reading
Upon the shores bathed by withdrawing breakers, four sailors lay against the wooden beam that anchored them above the raging stream while their ship drowned, sieved by the whirling shakers. The stranded crew is made up of a man a lynx, a woman and a mandarin duck, who after the due rest and rant against their luck, their doom of sand scorched by the sun they scan, wave after dreary wave of drought till they locate the silver heaving of the spaceship’ dome, announcing through their doom the hope for home. With varied strides to pace their weary gait, they reach the entrance of the ship to see that someone must have broken in. Afraid that something might be lurking in the shade, they chose the lynx, well skilled in bravery, to go in first and check if all is safe.… ...continue reading
“All death is suffocation,” Travis Gott overheard an ER nurse say as she strode briskly past his bed. He felt his heart rate rise. He’d been brought into this Lake Arrowhead hospital on an ambulance gurney not half an hour earlier. It was nearly midnight. A white plastic ID bracelet now encircled his left wrist like a small pale snake that’s swallowed its own tail. He wore on his right ring finger a black onyx class ring.
“Choking, strangulation, drowning,” Travis heard another unseen nurse say, “those work. What others?”
“Kidney failure, heart disease, they all ultimately result in pulmonary collapse,” answered the first nurse. “That’s how we die.” Travis’ breathing, already thready, quickened as he imagined his lungs – those pinkish-gray bellows – locking up forever.… ...continue reading
