One way to measure the passage of time is to count the number of days since you last had sex. I’ve lost count. I only know it’s been more than three years for me and my husband—at least with each other. I know this because
Read More
At Waitomo, New Zealand If there is no heaven I’ll make due rest my head in the cave of constellations. Look up at The Milky Way pressed against stony pomegranate flesh.
Matthew Woodman teaches at CSU Bakersfield and is a graduate of the IAIA MFA program in Santa Fe, NM. He is the author of This Is Not Your Moon, and his poem
I got our mouse. In a glue-trap on the basement landing. I shined my cellphone and it tried to free itself by undulating like this dancer we saw on Make America Fun
Solid Water I wait for the want to come inside of mewhile watching the morning commute near the Amstel. A stork on a houseboat does the samewhile hundreds of cyclists navigate narrow lanes. She
after Hozier Test me again. Let me fail so deliriously. Head rush.Breath hot. Let me feel all my inner intricates only God knows how much I’ve
Rylan won’t change the lightbulb in the living room. She won’t sit down to read, watch a movie or play scrabble there, and it’s all because of the heads. She doesn’t say
I didn’t stop to take the snapshot and now I can’t: the gas station’s mansard roof has been peeled off as part of a renovation and gone are the letters, painted over
1. at cracked marrow of the double yellow line extraction crane buckles down bare fork prong crookless end of
each morning, spangling the loton sidewalks, at crosswalks, across the new campusas if grackle stanchion, as if
Honestly, there was nothing to see — just two women, mother-daughter-friends on a mid-summer day, tangled hands on summerhouse cushions, pinked apple blossoms drifting — I must have been dreaming of the sweet