July 2011
28 posts
My Earliest Memory is Not My Own
Rough, world-sized hands gripped my infant body at the waist and under my arms, thumbs digging in to my softened chest, the way a father might unknowingly dig.
Jogged on his knee until I settled down, my eyes locked on his own, unblinking toward his barely familiar face, newly stitched together after a rocky cliffside fall.
A query can run a thousand different courses in a child’s brain,...
Drain
My drying of the plates is not your drying — your raising of the window unlike any other.
The breeze cools us at infinitely different angles. What in all this could remain?
What can defy the gradual narrowing down, and stacking of the pans?
You, here, with your waist against the sink and the water soaking into your jeans.
I cannot find in you what is not already in myself — cannot track the...
Paper Back
When I start something fresh, I grip it gently, but firmly, at its most extended arc and begin to fold it back, over on itself, creasing the spine of the thing until I feel it break, a thousand tiny fibers giving way.
Even before we start the first page. Even before a proper introduction.
When a sheep strays from the flock, a good shepherd breaks its leg, with a paternal faith, I’m sure, ...
