In springtime, chief of all seasons, in May when new joys rise and flourish, the sun is lord and messenger at once and sends down to us to rouse our bodies and be merry: humankind to...
Oh give me a home with a big landscaped lawn four cars, a boat and a kitty. For my heart yearns to be any place that is free of the urban decay of this city. I’ll do my shopping at Gucci’s and Sak’s, spend all of my...
In this life, there are stars and there are stunt doubles.
Before I became one of those fathers obsessed with memorizing his lines, making peace with the Big Director in the sky who doesn’t like ad libs, before all that, I was the star of my own...
Hunger like her mama
Most strong in White gaze as in
a Cowbird’s flirtation
Sprouted in eyes to tongues
to bellies pregnant with stolen milk
to restless hands
These fingernails filled with Black body,
Because I should’ve wrote this years ago, I’m crying. So what my slow failure pass the years Make me be crying. So what in Bethlehem I tried to push so much against it, where the Wall is checkpoint...
Mama birthed me, Papa sold me in the land of weeping willows Traces of sin trail miles across skin, I go by Never Forget My body’s evidence of daddy’s pestilence spread across the land
His sin traces my skin, a path never forgotten Nameless,...
Growing up in a rural factory town I watched my creative family extend the grind oft monotonous jobs outside the factory walls and into their lives until they were no longer capable of accessing their artistic abilities. The factory essentially...
John Cabot, out of Wilma, once a Wycliffe, all whitebluerose below his golden hair, wrapped richly in right linen and right wool, almost forgot his Jaguar and Lake Bluff; almost forgot Grandtully (which is The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Scotch); almost forgot the sculpture...
I feel middle class when I'm in love. I think it's all the poached eggs on bird-seed bread, staying up all night on Zoopla—imagine waking under cottage beams, the laughter in a garden. Kids. A little boy with gold hair keeps standing in my dreams.
The Devil made a meal of me and all the Sundays I was sleeping. To think of all the hours, what I might've offered to the Book or of the Book to needful ears grown up like burdock in our hag-rid thorn-bit flock of town.
Notice the theme of floating, our volunteer guide says, pointing to the light gray exterior walls. We take out our phones to capture the weeping European beech—the first of its kind I’ve seen—dangling dark papery leaves in cascading caves to...