The poems I prefer to read are by writers who have been dead for at least fifty years. The poems remain venomous, but the writers don’t care if you put them in a tank and feed them mice, or sever their heads with a shovel and cure their bodies in tequila. The poems I prefer
Category: flash prose
First my step-mother died, and then my father started talking about his new friend Lamar. Lamar collected rocks for a schist garden, bottle-raised a bear cub till it was time to let it go wild, put his boot on the dark side of the moon. It’s cute, my wife said, that your dad has an
My mother’s little treasure lay hidden in a blue, faux leather jewelry box, just large enough to have once held a ring or, perhaps, a pair of earrings. I found it nestled in a corner of her dresser drawer, peeled away its tissue paper swaddling, and exposed the desiccated vestige of my own umbilical cord.
A small two-bedroom across the street from a shooting range. They’ve moved east to escape California and the wildfires that claimed two of their houses. He manages the local record store. She spends sullen afternoons doing voice work in her home studio—radio commercials and jingles, mostly. Every time he leaves home, she says, “Don’t get
The nurses forbid us from touching our feet to the floor. We were to stay in bed. So we made the tiles below a river and rode our mattresses across them like boats into dark tunnels. Sometimes we’d emerge to the other side, surrounded by mountains that flinched as we approached. Even the landmasses feared