“Everything Is a Prayer to Something”
Abercrombie’s Haunted TV and Small Appliance Repair
Ahead of the Curve
Among Thorns
Backpedal
Callinectes Sapidus
Climate Change
Desire Lines
Devil Watching as, in the Midst of Your Isolation, Your Child Insists on Opening All of Her Umbrellas
Home From the Wars
My Father Thinks Danger Is Beautiful
Shakespeare. Chekhov. Love.
Small as This
Sorrel
The Symbolic Cemetery
The TELEPHONE Project
Wintering
Devil Watching as, in the Midst of Your Isolation, Your Child Insists on Opening All of Her Umbrellas
Charlie Clark
Or is it in the mist, in the scarfing umber light where nothing shows
any symptoms. Admit it, the main thing your life lacks
is mist. It’s a common problem, like living
so long you’ve forgotten what to bow before. In this house you go on
eating the dandelion butter you have churned uncertainly,
your uncertainty extending slowly as the antennae of the garden
slug you took these ingredients from. Your child wakes doing math
gleefully because she fears the further loneliness of sleep;
your child, who for days will speak only in the timbrous
barking of a wolf, whose favorite instruments for six years were the clanger and the gong,
who has stopped asking for music and peonies,
who wants only a silence into which, occasionally, you are to describe
the faces of her friends just so she can tell you you have done something inexplicable
and repeatedly wrong.
Read more »
any symptoms. Admit it, the main thing your life lacks
is mist. It’s a common problem, like living
so long you’ve forgotten what to bow before. In this house you go on
eating the dandelion butter you have churned uncertainly,
your uncertainty extending slowly as the antennae of the garden
slug you took these ingredients from. Your child wakes doing math
gleefully because she fears the further loneliness of sleep;
your child, who for days will speak only in the timbrous
barking of a wolf, whose favorite instruments for six years were the clanger and the gong,
who has stopped asking for music and peonies,
who wants only a silence into which, occasionally, you are to describe
the faces of her friends just so she can tell you you have done something inexplicable
and repeatedly wrong.