“…they will wield power in the smallest ways” —Colm Toibin Early evening, the first lamps light in dew on grass. Before I’ve…
Open sesame: open season on thick skin: a narrow hand as good as snow melting
(Winter Solstice, Thursday, 22 December 1977) Thinking about nothing but the weather, I couldn’t sleep or write. The last or the worst was coming. I’d let pencil fall onto blank page and taken the four-wheeler to rumble over the clock-face of snow.
Rolling in from the lowlands every summer, a miasmatic mist intent on its pleasures. Wealthy enough to have the luxury of poor nerves, they preen and fawn over their kidneys, rheumatism, flour albus and scrofulitic afflictions, one group even carting up their own preacher,
Despite my animosity toward Sunday school and church: the huge helmets of grey hair capped by tight buns, flung back in hallelujahs; the spirit-filled oxblood wingtips loping to and from hard seats, and all the cloth— giant flowery dresses billowing up aisles, flapping dark suits and long ties lolling like…
Quarter moon converses with clouds in symposium aloft, musing, casually floating ideas, adrift in thought, passing off bon mots, with subtle nuance, obscure allusions, something elliptic, something recondite and something of hope.
Secret beside the rocks that bleed Virginia creeper, trickling vine, where sycamores dangle their white feet into the creek—she’ll come by slowly in the cold, last light.
When the word slipped from my lips, your eyes hardened, balked at something you did not understand.
how the body is like an acoustic guitar strings the texture of your daughter’s hair, your fingers clasped over her small open mouth strumming a muffled sob
On the curve of pasture, concrete stairs are a grey memorial of the stolen house. Two trees loiter in their restless shade distracted by birds, are unaware of absence. Cows nuzzle them.