Tag Archives: nature

My History in Parts

We took your mother’s car. (Pushed) through bramble across mud and rocks. It ends in a stainless steel kitchen, still slick from high tide. Nothing swallows the hunger, (or ever does) bite through a fence. The outline of an overpass, … Continue reading

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In Silence

I guess there are always a thousand things. In the city, down the mountain, in the city. I didn’t want to throw away a good word, so I reused it on you. It isn’t that I am unkind, you weren’t … Continue reading

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Passenger.

I cannot unwrite what has been told by history. Moving forward along the Hudson, in the second to last car, I think about my grandfather. His tenement on East 51st was evacuated when the U.N. was being built. My roommate … Continue reading

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Saturday Catch Up.

I keep reading you. It does not make the disappointment enough to swallow. This morning the neighbors bought more flowers, shrubs, herbs for the backyard. I cannot make myself keep up. The white dress laid across the arm chair, flowered … Continue reading

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For Every Barista Ever, and Especially for Sunshine. 13 of 30. #napomo

Sunshine is a poet, says her arm, cut-out-heart with scissor a permanent stamp; a new name. Sunshine makes coffee, makes chai and latte, sunshine is not her name. Smiles slow as chemex, steams the milk with her eyes closed, hair … Continue reading

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Bathing in Kitchens. Something of 30. #napomo

Anna Karenina backstrokes the moon, while my mother bathes Lyndsay in the kitchen sink. I marvel at the bubbles, the glow of outerbridge stretching toward New Jersey. Women’s bodies bend; the heart hardly fits in a cage made of bone; … Continue reading

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11 of 30. The Almost Summer of Beer

I am falling behind. Always waiting for that light to roll over the bridge or for the flowers in our garden to bloom. The city gets pretty in spring time. We eat together more, and it gives me patience that … Continue reading

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This Is Not A Prayer

It doesn’t go away. It gets stronger. Bring me back to life. I am dying in parts. Blue Rock off of Exit 15, through the woods in Harlemville. Water so cold, I could hardly stay dry. The summers were crowded, … Continue reading

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Spring

I have tried to write without a view. The words push themselves into corners and come out whitewashed or shadowed. When my mother tells me to be careful and only wear clothes that flatter me, I try to listen. She … Continue reading

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Every Moon A Woman

It’s that I don’t know where to go from here, or how to uncrack brick. The fire pit is cold and dark, the door creaks with every visitor. What does it mean to be alone? When do we wake up … Continue reading

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