1. I was awake on the morning the fog mustered up the courage to contact you. It was like moss growing across the door and tapping tree limbs combined. 2. You stopped moving two weeks ago. There are things you should have said, she said— gowns parted against humming machines, hazardous materials. What is the… Read More Spindled Roses
This reminds me of how clouds look in winter, so like soft scales on the ocean. The bodies park themselves as though in front of a window, looking in – you, I leave among the living with your hair and lungs inverted on a cloud. I assure you, I have done all I could.
The woman waded through the moonlit fields like a horse – deliberately. Her mouth was a pale line in the darkness, like someone searching for a love lost in death. Her bracelets clinked like hooves to cobble. I watched her move over the field like someone sleepwalking into dawn. * Inspired by Pablo Neruda’s “The… Read More A Glass Full of Swans
1. And he said, “There is a reason you stopped drawing trees.” on the same morning that the hand on the clock stopped turning. 2. You spent that morning opening fields – releasing crows in large billows into the sky. There was no one. There was a scarecrow. 3. I inverted your skin on a… Read More Homeward
There are men who choose to live without trees. You dreamt that scattered wheelbarrows covered the earth like stones, that flowers broke under the wind that dusted the water. You did not believe that your wife’s shadow looked like a tree against the sun – its wavering reflection on the water, its silhouette on her… Read More Lower Life Forms
There comes a time when the trees begin to trade places. A woman spirals through limbs, the nearby depths of a lake – You remember the day when you explained to her how you wanted to wait for a winter wedding – You dug up the charcoal of leftover flowers and leaves, the tree limbs,… Read More At Confessions
Zoland Poetry 5: An Annual of Poems, Translations & Interviews *** STEPHANIE STRICKLAND burning briar scanning tunnel there is a zombie at the wheel who finds acceptable all risk (his flesh looks like mine) a crinkle monkey in the swamp mind tricky and brisk (his moves feel like mine) headless mannequin draped white print snakeskin… Read More Reading/”Favoriting” Zoland Poetry #5