Where fall hangs on into late December are

scattered bay leaves, almond-shaped to the
petiole, petiole as boat draft, wake, tiny

battleships and destroyers from the

admiral’s sky vantage, arranged in naval
maneuvers on the asphalt expanse of Hastings

I divide my life into two parts: before Hiland Mountain and after. The time between I don’t dwell on much. Why should I? It was as bleak as Eagle River’s sky in November, a granite dome strung with nimbus clouds that blocked all light and yielded only biting rain and hail. Through the steel bars, the land around the facility was covered with a thin layer of frost and ice, where off in a distant and unattainable horizon a few dots hinted at Anchorage city life.

A boy floated face down in the clear and silent lake. No wind stirred the surface, though scattered webs of ripples caught the slanting morning sun. The boy wore nothing but his briefs. Minnows darted curiously between his dangling fingers.

He laughed. The sound slipped from his mouth and nose in bubbles, which tickled his face as they sought the open air. Squirming, he flipped over to draw a breath and blink at the pale-blue sky through the drops of water clinging to his lashes. A crow coughed its rough call in the rustling quiet.

It was Wednesday morning, which meant chores and schoolwork were waiting. But they could wait a little longer. Ever since Mama had decided public school was a bad influence and her children ought to be homeschooled, his days had been largely his own.

My father told anyone who would listen that he was an atheist, a foil to his mother’s church immersion. Chanting “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” clutching her rosary as Dad rushed our rented Ford Mustang through a Miami Beach thunderstorm, she frightened me with her fear.

She had a baby
only two weeks ago –
2 pounds, 6 sticks of butter, a sack of flour
a bowl of apples, a bag of caramel sugar
2 pounds of a girl.

She weeps into the bowl of her hands,
her breasts full, her womb a spent sack
her baby, no bigger than a pup…

It was a bright afternoon. Sunlight fell across the benches and paths, making the leaves glow in green and gold. Angelique sat on a bench near the lake, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded on her lap. An older man was beside her, gray-haired and stooped, speaking slowly about hatred. He spoke as though he had carried it all his life and expected to carry it always.

It’s been raining outside for days now. It’s a dribbling kind of rain. No downpours. No thunder. Just dripping, dripping, nonstop. The air feels clammy, almost suffocating.

Inside her office, Dr. Wu reviews her patients’ medical records. The building has air-conditioning. She appreciates a windowless office much more on days like this.

Her office is on the first floor of the hospital and the rehab unit is one floor above. She likes her office because being an introvert, not seeing what’s going on outside of her space suits her well. She likes its peaceful feeling. In fact, she likes it so much that she dreams to write a story or a novel someday and call it “A Room Without A View.”

They laid my mother on the table, a sheet to cover her face from seeing the belly once kissed by men on warm, tropical nights. It looked so different now, sterile. The freckles dotting her pale round belly looked like an infection rather than the constellations. The doctors inserted a scalpel and held plastic buckets on either side, careful to not let the blood spill onto the floor.

Tweet, tweet, tweet,
tandaradei,
set the scene
back in the day;
inside and outside
the heat for master and slave
too hot to handle
even in the basement,
even in the shade

My siblings and I all committed to a biking tour together in Puglia, Italy, almost a year before its mid-May start date. The main reason was a joint celebration of significant milestones for each of us at the time. I was the oldest brother and was turning seventy, and our lone sister, Alice, sixty-five. Pete, two years my junior, had just successfully survived head/neck cancer plus a rash of aftermath complications. And Tom, the youngest, had formalized his upcoming early retirement at age sixty-one.

Direct the intention seaward, where kelp forests sway like cathedral tapestries,
And the hush of the deep folds inward, a silence vast enough to hold the ache of longing.

Let your thoughts unfurl like sea anemones, soft and trembling,
Reaching for the light that dances down in scattered gold

A flickering neon sign reading “A-R-T” on a dark Culver City street was the only indication that Arcturus Gallery was open. Steep concrete steps led to a basement-level space. He nearly slipped on a rain-slicked slab—it never rains in LA—before landing in a small puddle in front of a smudged glass door.

Cursing as damp seeped through thin socks, he pushed through the portal. Bells jangled announcing his entry into the art gallery, as though it was a convenience store.

three-legged cat crouches in the alley
one-eyed horse at pasture
white sun breathes on white stone

green figs cling
to the youth of their branches
resist their gradual purpling

soles of shoes

The cell phone’s ring pierced through the Christmas music like a needle into a vein. I sputtered from my baking nirvana and glanced at the screen, already aware by the ringtone that the caller wasn’t my husband or our daughters’ school but still a number I’d stored. When I saw that it was the oldest granddaughter of Helen, my sweet neighbor, I set my frosting bag down and tapped a pinky fingertip to the green button.

“Nikki, thank God you’re home. It’s Rachel. We need your help.”

When I left you alone at night after three it was I think
The storybook moment and perfect ending: three dead
Maji dropping from the sky bounce off clouds. Spiritless
We disappear within the screams, the laughter; Pro-

Publica gone DOA. I’m almost nauseous having thought
Of the way we cook with human flaw; coleslaw dignity.

It was my third cruise in three summers, and I still could not get used to the cramped, windowless living situation that followed me onto every boat. I guess if I wanted to, I could have always splurged on a better room, but that always made things more than twice the price, and without the shitty room, it hardly even felt like a cruise.

I borrowed this attitude mostly from my wife, who did not enjoy cruises very much at all, and only came when I insisted.

My childhood friend says:
I don’t believe in dinosaurs anymore.
I laugh
but he insists
he’s not kidding.
Stunned,
I search his eyes
for a glimmer
of the person
I’ve loved

It told me that I have a problem
I have to solve, that I’m the puzzle.
I could feel it study me, as I
researched myself. It taught me
if I go deep, it’ll all work out, a
mastermind of configuring the pieces
of my psyche, which it said in Greek
means “soul.”

Tonight, I choose to place my singular attention
on the moon, the orb of dust and rock
and its ghostly reflection of the burning star,
and breathe in the crickets and the owls.

And it is in the lightless chill that I wonder—
what does it mean to arrive, to find
comfort in a destination reached.

It’s not me.
The polish lingers,
black onyx screams
on each finger.

It’s been five days.
My nails are lit.
I’m not sure why
I try it.

in the basement
of the bi-level
where I live
with my parents
and older sister
in a small middle class
suburb of Chicago

The sixteen-year-old Yitzel was getting restless in the long queue at the entrance to the Portuguese embassy in Berlin. It was so very hot and crowded in the noonday sun, and she felt a great thirst, a sweaty forehead, and an intense need to defecate. She and her mother Yolande had been waiting in line for over five hours, and Yitzel couldn’t understand why her mother was so bent on getting what she called a “visa” to Portugal or to any of its colonies. Yolande had explained that a “visa” was a special permission to travel to any part of the Portuguese empire, including colonies in both Africa and Asia, but Yitzel didn’t quite understand what the words “empire” or “colony” meant.

I was enthralled with a visit to Saguaro National Park in the spring. I had never seen the desert before and the flowers were breath-taking. I felt very lucky to bear witness.

As a child, I believed I was special. I grasped complex ideas quickly, asked questions about reality that my peers never considered, and felt destined for greatness.
But as I grew older, life had a way of dissolving those ideas. Not that I was unhappy—I had a great wife, great kids, joyful moments—but something was missing. A dull ache in my chest, a heaviness in my eyes—surfacing at odd moments, unbidden.