Christmas came around the corner like a thug, it wanted my wallet or heart and didn’t care which. The trickling down my ribs reminded me of dear blond Lynch saying titsweat is the worst, and the wet wool at my pits made me feel bad for the sheep, who never imagined itself dyed crimson and […]
Elizabeth Scanlon is an editor of The American Poetry Review. Her chapbook Odd Regard is available from ixnay press.
Livid with this life, she is awake, two years old and too much to be contained in bed and dreams. Quick text of change, the psych book says she won’t remember any of it — no matter how idyllic, it’s too traumatic: the maturation process is utter. Her fierce cognition mercifully lost, it is said, […]
I. The wash of stroller wheels reveals the sidewalk’s return to sand. One pushes another forward into an uncertain future— mama baby buggy bumper – our origins on parade, this moment of longing that compels many to do much, make more. The pusher strides forth with her antenna, an extension of herself , believing this […]
My foothold is tenoned and mortised in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time. – Walt Whitman The stone walls of Pennsylvania, mossed grays veined with dim tinsel, whip by the car window, rows of Wissahickon schist skirt the fields, stop short where roads cut in and […]