Explore

He drew on time, and space, he drew on his powers, and their sleep.

I made him love me. To feel abandonment—again.

What a noise it must have made long ago. It’s not just me saying this.

Napoleon, who can say you don’t deserve my allegiance?

There was one lease Homer Young wanted above all others.

First a mother puts her child to sleep, then the other way around.

I know it’s a problem, that I prefer to think instead of live.

I slide my heart inside a folded sheet of paper and tape down the opening.

Another light is growing out of their shadows. You can hear it.

We lived below the poverty level. I wasn’t allowed to desire objects.

Robin Troy

I stay gripped to pine and the sugar of existence runs through you.

That’s how a lifetime passes, closing the wound, a million stitches.

An expansion into light, or we could have been, or were for a moment.

It’s wrong to say the lightning is pink is nothing other than to say it’s not.

When I speak and wave my arms, it sniffs the air and watches me.

Break me like bread. Take me apart. Strip each rib down to light.

She closed her mind to all familiar shapes and strained back.

I know that hairs
on my head go singly gray only
by night.

We crunch through the snow in the predawn blue-black cold. He tells me about the stars: Vega, Betelgeuse, Arcturus, Rigel.

He sobbed; he said he would go to therapy, stop drinking.

“We know what can happen,” Mike says. “We choose to do this.”

They felt smarter and sexier, especially when together.

Lovers, a new set of six-word stories from Elizabeth Benedict.

Something has to be what this is, old and primitive, and it sounds like this.

The moon rescinds its blessing, rests its forehead on a crosier of ivory.

Idzia is a little monster. For a monster, though, she’s awfully cute.

Each time he retells that morning my dad forgets I was there too.

Maybe that’s what she feels, not stranded, but suspended in time.

Ice and evergreen and sun; three moments arranged for human looking.