On April 26th, 1949, Selma Stern married the wrong man, a circumstance she compulsively complained about, as though Morris Wort, an otherwise infuriately passive individual had grabbed her by the arm, dragged to City Hall, and forced a judge to unite them before her fiancé, a demigod stuck in traffic, could intervene.
The wind was from the northeast. A cold wind blowing light and steady with the predictability of winter coming on. It was late October. You knew winter was coming hard and there was no escaping it. You just had to bear it.
The man was in his early fifties and needed a shave, the stubble just showing on his cheeks. His broad face and blinking eyes were set to the wind and had a curious look of detachment.
People have commented how stoic I was about my brother’s death, how graceful all the sons were about losing the third in line, but most of them don’t realize we were born with genes for fatalism that had been switched on for generations. On both sides of my family before the emigration here, our ancestors knew little but stress, war, and hard work.
on the sunbaked
patio, a little girl,
discovers a snake
sunning itself
on a boulder
she runs into
the house
jubilantly reports
the presence…
I’m so sorry you don’t have the vision
I have. Like when Lesbia
showed me the new Cure cassette in ‘92
I was able to pick out
what would be the most popular songs
in two seconds.
We made the London West End theatre reservation last year in 2023. As soon as we knew we’d be flying to NYC in Spring 2024 and taking a transatlantic cruise to Iceland and then onto Europe, we had booked the play in London’s West End, A Long Day’s Journey into Night.
Waves of people swarm the sidewalks like the waves in the nearby ocean, and it is always hot. Shoppers, families, delivery boys, phone addicts, lost souls, tourists, girls of the night clearly in their early mornings and more. They all look the same…
When Antonio was around nine years old, shortly after his father’s murder, the young boy discovered not only that he was a child of sin, but also that God would be a mighty rival for the attention of his mother. For the rest of his life, Antonio would remember the macabre scene of his father Arsenio’s rotting body…
The sun blazed down upon Cave Hill Cemetery, bathing the graves of the fallen with tribute for their ultimate sacrifice. John Marshall Harlan stood among an impatient crowd. He knew some of the men interred here, who had departed their sweet Kentucky homes, their beloved creeks and valleys, for the sake of the indivisible Union, and from time to time he would visit their graves.
I compel myself to think, even if every stream of thought seems to pool only into misery.
I’ve had too much time on my hands since we arrived in Rexdale — settled down in a barren basement where I thought our dreams would take form.
David Abbott was the last person the citizenry of Centerville expected to commit suicide, much less in broad daylight and by such unsightly means, his broken and bloody corpse splayed on impact from its five-story fall onto the sidewalk in front of the Playhouse Cinema.
color
came to me suddenly
not blood, but red, reddish
and burning. Only
at first abrupt,
like a punch line, a
jawbone or
hallway carved
Howard’s wife was talking about the yard again, before his breakfast, that back forty he’d bought when the Fishers moved away. She didn’t want him to clear it, said she’d spotted some special flower. Weed, more likely. Fond of wasteland, Fay was – stumps and berries.
Back in the spring, when the thawed warmth of early morning felt new through the concrete lattice of the parking garage, Eddie and Margaret would not have been so free in their intolerance of Marshall, or so close that handholding felt natural. In the spring they were just becoming accustomed to the others’ short stops, hard turns, and personal music preferences.
The sky, a flawless blue,
the kind of California day,
that gets under your skin.
Scaffolds holding up the heavens
stretching against celestial infinity.
Is there a placeholder for me
in that expanse?
Ada walked through their neat front garden, which looked as unremarkable as yesterday. The front door key still fit in the lock, and she let the keychain dangle a moment. She unbuttoned her brown coat then bent to dust off her trousers and retie a lace in her leather shoes. Her wristwatch said it had only been twenty-four hours.
Flamingoes all pink and proud
at the Junior Museum & Zoo.
Kids & grandparents all aflutter
flocking to public feeding time
in a fluff-and-strut club of cute.
Marco Merletti came from a long line of magicians. His mother Talma was a noted mentalist from the old country, capable of convincing the Tuscan villagers of her inscrutable powers of clairvoyance. The moment her searing brown eyes alighted on a young woman’s tearful face or an old man’s trembling white handkerchief, she knew who had been the mistress of whom, who was to give birth and why and countless other secrets the country people thought were their own.
This bathroom, shared with a dozen others. Now, three years on, she’d pause in this bathroom. To retrieve that spike of energy when, finally, after interviews and tests, she secured her right to live in this building. To know its ways. To share this bathroom.
L-shaped, the shower far back in the alcove. The slant to the drain steep enough to alert bare toes. The basin’s obese taps with Hot and Cold in foxed enamel. Their bolts and washers industrial and gleaming.
Because it’s always dusk, we make everything neon: our clothes, our furniture, our streetlights. The City is far north enough that the sun never breaches the sky—it skates the horizon’s rim, dips up and under like a coin circling the drain. Neon is our bioluminescence, and it’s always cold in the city.
I don’t remember how I started researching liminal spaces. Couldn’t even say which ology my post-grad work is classified as.
no music, only the daylight, the green
of the trees growing, so fresh and bright,
imagine a leaf, a single one of them
held to your cheek, in its chill,
its refusal of heat, this early in the year,
the stars so far from here, the birds
in their lightness going about their business
If time could fly backwards instead of forwards, could I love you in reverse?
In the beginning, a farewell. Two lovers say goodbye. An embrace begins to loosen before letting go. Hands that clasped tightly together, slowly slip apart; a space opens between palms, fingers are no longer entwined.
The attraction that once drew us together turns into a force pushing us apart.
I feel as hollow as the empty black circle staring at me from the screen. The nurse practitioner is quiet as she scans my uterus. A push to the left, a push to the right. Left, right, left, right. I gaze at the monitor, searching for what I’ve waited seven weeks to see: a white blob floating in a black ovoid sea, outlined by a bright white line.
Left, right, left, right. Back and forth, the cold probe pushes against my insides. The empty black circle keeps coming in and out of view. Nothing else.
Sophia built her first shrine when she was six years old. She took a fragment of a fallen bird’s nest, decorated it with dandelions and acorn shells, and surrounded it with a circle of stones on the surface of a tree stump in her backyard. The tree had come down very recently, and she’d been staring out the window at the place where it used to be. No one had taught her to build this shrine; she had no word for what she was doing.