After Jennifer S. Cheng 1: the sea captured in a glass 2: a homophone for having enough for leftovers, a synonym for abundance 3: the fish, who have already forgotten you. It’s not personal 4: where memory fails, there’s still imagining 5: you. Not as an ocean but outside 6: glass and/or acrylic
Read MoreAll right, I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m a sucker for super hero flicks. I grew up in the era of Nickelodeon’s short-lived The Secret World of Alex Mack, about
Brenda K. Marshall’s first novel, Mavis, was published in 1996 (Fawcett-Columbine), and
* Voltage-gated pathways are depolarizedand pore-forming membrane proteinsallow calcium influx from adjacent
Accumulated through the season, like black exhauston white snow, winter cruelties linger—a dirtyepidermal merengue sealing in all that wouldotherwise melt within us; the closing of the bellowsthat precedes the closing case. We
To think there is such a thingas a good dayis to neglect the sun’s eternal indifferenceto the clouds and fogthat bottle it up invisibleand block its raysfrom reaching our foreheads. What kindof
the newspaper boy once told melove is loud. scream three times each day, and someone will at least feed you: sugar-snap peas thrown, showeringlike hail, macadamia nutsscattered like words, even safflower seeds sprinkling the nest of
(Where neither photography nor sketching were allowed) I. The freighted thud of a rock hitting an ice sheeted pond. No crack. White shavings lay in the sundry mud and leaves thrown off
All things considered, it is a comedy about fruit. People travel from miles around to buy produce from the stand on the side of the highway. They get out
Spring Breakers (Dir. Harmony Korine, 2013) Poetry is a place. The world puts you in your place. History dictates the pattern, dead as Saturn’s rings. The world puts you in an orbit from which
Because her local news was buzzing in the background of the phone call. Because the voicesof the anchors wavered as the tally ticked & skipped from double to triple digits while we
The hunger to forget, a flockof questions, a flight of memories.Finishing my life might look like thesephotographs my mother sent me,annotated in her shaky hand with names,leaves that will outlive us all.
and a womb sounds too closeto wound. Every time this happens, I forget the sacred pocketwhere you carried me, buried me like a seed in a citrus grove. Suddenly, I amcrashing my
On the morning of 9/11, six hours before the first plane would crash into the north tower, my cousin woke up and said to his mother: something terrible will happen to the
