I noticed, as I always do, only the unintentional things: a half-eaten plate of franks & beans; a dipshit kid teasing his brother; a portrait of the water looking more solid than land on display in the museum & everyone musing O, what expression of self. I couldn’t leave you any more than I could …
Some nights, my girls circle him, glitter wands poised like spears. They dance around their papa like a small pajamaed tribe, throw their heads back laughing at their genius, giddy. He is twice their size and he will kneel in front of them, carry them on his shoulders, suspend them in his arms just so …
There you were collecting the week’s money from the cigarette machine at Lenny’s when he put the gun to your head. Sharp, but quiet. And you, knowing this was the finale, invited him to drink. Pulled a new bottle of Seagrams and two shot glasses from the gold Impala. Both of you sitting in darkness, …
The South that spring was as hot as the tropics. At dusk, mosquitoes swarmed the lit porch lights Attached to the little houses bordering the train tracks. With the slightest breeze, boxcar dust clung to skin. In heat like that, during times like those, There was no telling what anyone would do for relief. Victoria …
by Gigi Marks (winner of the 2010 Coal Hill Review Chapbook Prize) A Welcome I like the look of sadness on a face because I know it, can welcome its shape against my hand and feel its smoothness. I like the way my fingers can knead its doughy cheeks and softened jaw, the way …
I build a rocket from beer bottles and rose petals – light the fuse – almost explode to the stratosphere – sputter out freefall – fireball into the Bronx on a 100° day when the streets smell like hot garbage in a stew of falafel; subway screeches are the upholstery needle fingers of a lover …
From her mouth flow apple seeds & hyacinth blossoms. Her long legs bow when she climbs, maniacal— to the treetops. To us, she is so much longer up there. We fear her rough fall and we beg her to return. And she slinks down to earth from her treetop, past cups of sweet tea made …
Imagining Emily Dickinson in 1852 She’s thinking of song— dividing the day into eight juicy bits, into sixty little books of six folded sheets, “always in ink,” the worm of oblivion tucked neatly into one gnawed corner— polishing some lapidary idea of a frayed eternity. Her hair is red feathers—a …