There is a tender mystery about life—little seeds are planted inside the heart, which grow over time. Most of us are unaware of these little seeds, but when the one you love departs from this world an unusual thing begins to happen. Those little unknown seeds begin to grow. At first we are unmindful of these little seeds, for the pain of the loss is so great. But, as that

Every Tuesday and Thursday noon, Michael Fassbender and his Photoshopped jaw interrupt my office hours. He usually disarms me when I’m skimming my required reading, or grading pop quizzes, or praying that no student materializes with the usual gamut of questions (“what exactly did you mean by thesis statement?”; “I currently have a D in your class, but I want an A, so, like…?”)—in other words, ole Fassbender announces himself when I’m exactly distracted enough to forget that he’s always lurking in the periphery.

Two sisters.

All blonde, black velvet and sparkles,

amongst the church poinsettias.
The enchanted mother pulls out a phone

and captures earlier versions of herself.
Should I tattle

when the youngest,

lying on her back

beneath the pew,

begins to draw

on its underside?

“Goddamn sand.” “What?” “G-o-d-d-a-m-n s-a-n-d.” Will speaks slowly, forcing the letters through the fluttering black on white kufiya wrapped around his mouth, nose and neck. “C-a-n-‘t s-e-e s-h-i-t,” Popeye yells back. “What?” Popeye yells in Will’s ear, “Said can’t see shit.” Will nods as the two soldiers brace against the orange wall, whipping dirty sand all around them. “Should stay here,” Popeye shouts in Will’s face. “What the fuck you

Cat waited for Miriam to get up. He waited a long time, but she didn’t rise. She didn’t put fresh herring on his plate. She didn’t fill his water bowl. She didn’t open the back door so he could refuse to go out in the snow. She didn’t clean his box, even when he mewled and scratched sawdust all over the rug. By afternoon, Cat was very hungry. He walked

Thunder echoed in the distance as the rain pelted down, the cold, fat drops of water crashing against the traveler’s cloak. Tattered and frayed at the edges, one could tell from a distance the cloak and its owner had seen far better days. Shuffling forward in the darkness, the figure finally reached the doorway of a ramshackle inn at the end of the street. A battered and faded sign hung

Field Kallop is an artist whose primary tool is gravity. Her exhibition, The Melody of Structures, recently on view at The Tremaine Gallery, was an elegant contemplation of physics, mathematics, and the unseen structure of nature. The work is hard to categorize because it is at once drawing, sculpture, installation, and, during a public event when she constructed the piece, performance. As approximately fifty observers stood around the periphery of

In the dark, I pass a Schwarzwald. Pine trees drip and drool in the obsidian pre-dawn. The thick black copse is cold and damp like a grave and thin frozen firs scrape the dirty oily sky without giving shelter. No lingering for me. I feel unease and the apprehension that Hansel and Gretel should have had. Dank, inky winter forests drive ice worms into my soul. This dense night wood

Chasing Rabbits Your first treatment you mercifully sleep through. Your first chemo and you sleep and sleep and sleep with your IV’ed hand propped on a pillow cross-stitched with magenta hibiscus blossoms. I’m glad you are oblivious to the gory war stories recounted by your fellow infusionees. Your gentle hand twitching, lip wiggling, and ankle rustling show me that in your dreams, you’re chasing rabbits– You and Queenie, your beloved