Explore

This morning drifts of sand hissed along the shore like mist.

As I lit the samovar, she stepped through the door with that reserved gaze and whispering voice of hers. The Kabul of my childhood. The Kabul of affectionate gestures, of wise, soft-spoken street vendors. She ended the conversation in her usual discerning way, smoothing the blanket across my chest.

She always came back with her lipstick smeared all over her mouth.

We pull up alongside the great body. The fin marks the spot.

We’re fat! So what? They hadn’t yet tired of this chant, the play’s refrain.

It was spring: the field, a botanist’s mirage of wild flowers.

There is something on my mind rushing up as river in a locked car.

I wouldn’t know what to do with the body, gills pumping like an accordion.

Make yourself the site of purposeful failure. Take the never-again path.

I had forgotten how to breathe, and then I learned again, all at once.

It’s like his bottom half is not man but a strong horse.

Across sage flats, tundra, and bleeding hearts, she escapes.

Can there have been something in my letter, that unlucky letter?

You have your apron on under your coat. We’ve got each other.

I stop and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple.

He never stopped reminding me that I was born in Harmony, Georgia.

A bunny the size of a teacup feasts in the clover, ears lit up in salt-pink light.

“The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl.”

No more laughing like the waves. No more ocean of words to drink from.

As a child I wanted to behold the elusive squid, the patience of eels.