Under a darkening sky troubles lift as matter lights. I stand stripped, overwhelmed with insignificance Which strangely holds a dangerous power: careless frivolity tending toward self-destruction. But if nothing matters, then surely, in a substantive universe, everything must. And curiously, under that same sky, nihilistic thoughts reverse. And, what responsibility if each action matters; the
trees painting skies walking under the dimming light looking for relief that we can’t find as our faces darken beneath the pines splintered footsteps lost in the dark a trail of wonders that leaves no mark as feet grow weary and the trees grow sparse the trail trails off like a lonely spark paper dolls
I’ve felt the sparrow panic in my chest against my sternum – a random flutter, beating its wings. Sometimes, flitting beside my throat quavering, making me feel faint. The doctor says my heart’s missing, forgetting beats, tripping, then catching up but, I know it’s really a sparrow stuck there, trapped terrified, like the one you
She first sees the bird as shadow against shimmer, black against shifting colour, stretching its wings. It makes her think of Liszt in his topcoat and tails, arms raised before the cymbal crash.
It watches her, and in the pinprick light of its avian eye she recognizes transition. She saw the same in Frédéric’s when they said goodbye—“and take that disgusting cigar with you, Aurore,” he had said, to hide emotion—as the skeletal hand that had entranced the world reached feebly for the water glass, or possibly the grave. The cold Paris night was kissed with colour as she stepped outside, a new story dancing at the edges of her mind.
In the mid-1980s, after my second year of law school, I was working as a Summer Associate in a law firm, hoping to be offered permanent employment after graduation. As a perk, they took us by luxury bus from San Francisco to the American River for an afternoon of inner tubing, bonding and beer. Instructions were limited: “When you get to the rapids, make sure you go down feet first.” No life vests were provided.
1. I remember the hymns of these words like a late-night infomercial; people telling me to move on. People telling me to get over the fact that I don’t know my dad. It sounded the same each time, coming from different lips. Therapists and lovers. If you have a dysfunctional family, there are other options
Ean Hay—December 23, 1925 – May 26, 1977 They appeared quite suddenly in our midst. On my island, where everyone knew everyone else, these newcomers stood out like papayas in a basket of apples. Each one of them: Ean and Mary, and the kids Lauren, Toby and Colin, wore one of Mary’s handspun hand knitted
Caterpillars come in mid-September. Green-brown backs sectioned off with black rings around their torsos. White fuzz jutting out in erratic tufts, like madmen. They cover our porch, writhing about on the wooden planks, piling onto the welcome mat, inching towards the front door. Impatient guests. Careless, we squish them between our toes like grapes. First,
She wished that he would stop trying to give her things. He was shuffling through his unpacked possessions, producing items as makeshift gifts. She assured him that she did not want his half-used bottle of deodorant, nor did she want his copy of “The Communist Manifesto”. Most of the items were presented as a joke,
Although it was our first ascent we chose the route of most resistance Beneath brown cardboard doors you spoke of flowing rearward From far below the surface these things reflected differently and to you our altitude meant little I think you felt the marching feet of wasps and the mounting weight of smaller stones when
One of the best parts about starting a literary magazine is figuring out what to call it. What’s in a name? For some, it’s a label, an identity, a compass of sorts. For others, it’s arbitrary, or an expectation to subvert. For us, it was a way to think about the kind of literary work
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