but on the bus from Columbia to Ecuador you are unwell yet when an old man hands you a bottle you grip the armrest to lean forward and open it for him.
I’m building an almanac out of words from magazines. The bits of letters claw through each other Brassiere! Calcium! Triskaidekaphobia! toward each other. Here at the end of a long oak table spotlit by bankers’ lamps, I’m pasting Lemongrass! the words and positioning Poncho! them with tweezers, Loudly! Pawn Shop! sifting through the small oblong […]
When I asked my father’s business friend On my twentieth birthday to recommend A place in Paris Mom and I could go, He said Panurge’s Sheep “for ze food and show.” The name, I knew from reading Rabelais, Meant to follow blindly, but we went anyway. Displayed on walls and menus was risqué art […]
I was my father’s confidante. I was a child so I didn’t understand what he told me. But the goal was just to listen. We shared a birthmark. I have it near my left ear. Sometimes he took me to McDonalds where we shared a plastic booth. I asked, how are you, like a friend. […]
As a frittering girl with big superficial eyes, I hid under the bed from my father who was now screwing a woman of rock-hard silence. I imagined making love to Bob Dylan but I couldn’t decide whether we made a baby under the bed or on top of it. Maybe we just made time. When […]
At Notre Dame Those tattered rags in a glass case belonging to a nameless saint are mine, those cherubs in ceiling corners looking down on us are real. If I stood behind the pulpit and prayed out loud while looking up into the palm of a stained glass dome, whose to […]