The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.
We watched our father chuck her boom box out the bedroom window.
End of October, days recede quickly into night. Leaves fall in slow motion.
The dog glares back at Roger, his eyes on fire, but he doesn’t let her go.
There was no sense in brushing off or any other civilized thing.
The peanut seller tore sheets out of paperback books to make the cones.
I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.
Certainly the ushers who pass the baskets know me as a miser.
We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.
You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.
Frank kept his face blank as he read the orders: Report to Berlin.
She had been sleeping more and more as the tour went on.
Widow. I look up the etymology. To separate, split, cleave, divide.
“I’d like to talk to C about her personal statement,” Blattman said.
Streetlights throw the blinds against the ceiling. It’s 7:00 p.m.
So that’s what I’d look like if every beauty parlor in the world shut down.
We never really had what might be considered a normal conversation.
A father peeled the night / from another midnight & begged / me to lie
For me, Selweh was the real magic. She was nothing like my mother.
When he had passed from view, I stumbled back from the window.
She is complaisant with all her clothes off. She moves to his touch.
We are going south where I know that my father is going to die.
The stones here carry the island’s low cry inside them. A landlocked grief.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
Since I am in my seventies, it is now or never, and I know it.
If he’d had that seat belt on, he would have been pinned inside.
Since his mother’s fall, Ali had been stopping by every week to help out.
The old man drinks some more liquor and whacks down two trees.
My father made me watch softball on ESPN 2 to help me stay alive.
In carved hearts—the artery, link that links but won’t spell it out.