A Sheer Drop of Three Thousand Feet
Catharina
Creeping Thyme
Death of a Blimp
Here’s a memory
Mars is not as dry as they told us
Nudie Mags
Of Medicine and Mexican Food
Our Whole History
Reasons to Read
Standard X-Ray Precautions
Tasting Menu
The Dancer
the whiteout
When I Say My Heart Is Full, I Mean It's Full of Ghosts
Nudie Mags
Lexi Pelle
for Rich
Kate and I found the shoebox
stuffed behind the sweaters
on our stepdad’s top shelf.
We stared at the women’s
parted mouths, hair wild
as brushfire, many of them
kneeling the way a parent does
to tend a wound. We laughed
as we looked, and they looked
back: eyes blue as the marbles
we begged him to buy us
at the market. How carefully
he counted the last ones
in his tattered wallet.
We licked our fingers
clean of churro sugar as he
handed us the drawstring bag.
I still can’t get over how
he stayed no matter what
we did: drew thick Sharpie
dicks into the mouths of
the glossy women, left
the marbles unopened
in the back of his car
for weeks. Once,
I caught him hanging
the panties mom washed
for me; his fingers on
the part that hugged my hip,
so careful not to touch
the crotch as he laid
them on the drying rack.
Never in my life have I
been not touched like that.