Cover art by Mighty Marmot Art © 2022
|
Bite-Sized Stories
|
Know Your Bones // Poetry
“The body is a soft crackling earth... a black-capped chickadee that is asking you to / please not forget / where you came from. ”
Recalling the Narrow Way // Poetry
“I’m grateful for comfort and beauty, / yet—from time to time—I think of those days / when I lived in that elevated ribbon of space, / listening...”
What You Save on the Way Out of a Burning House // Poetry
“a civil war erupted over antique lamps, every knick-knack was another crack / in the dam as a family / divided & conquered each other... There is a banana box / in my guest room closet / with a small stack / of black & white pictures. / They are a curiosity.”
Stark County, Ohio // Creative Nonfiction
“Maybe you’ve heard this first part before, or feared something like it in a dream... My table is laughing, I smile coming up. Pat P., he’s laughing hard. Then I get closer and I see it. My books. JEW written over and over on each book cover, on the covers of my notebooks, filling the covers, some letters huge--JEW JEW JEW. The word covers the covers. The girls are just sitting there. They didn’t stop the boys. The boys are still laughing. I look at the faces. I stare at my books. I don’t know when I start crying. I grab the books and I run… We now call these micro-aggressions, but they weren’t micro, were they, to kids growing up in such an isolated place. Oakwood was the world as we knew it…when Ohio in the 1960s was like other places in the 1950s, a study in silences.”
the poem where I am lit on fire and hauled up high in the air for all of Negaunee to see // Poetry
“the cousin’s absolute total commitment to drink himself to death and the / nursing staff telling us that he can do anything he wants because this is America / and the words are so weird like the endless holes near the mine where we would / lean over / look down / see the bottom’s nighttime / even midday / when the dynamite would explode / and the cracks in our ceiling would lengthen.”
Odessa // Poetry
“but it was the silence after the silence / then came the cries / and then came the crying / I cried she says
and the other women cried too”
From My Window // Poetry
“The chopped blooms drip / from the flattened top / of the pruned bush under which / the cats used to shelter. It rained / hard. So, no cats, and flowers / like candle wax. So, nature, / all tidied up by fashion. / Bales of hay stacked high. / Rivers.”
February/Estoy Aquí // Poetry
“And the next world has found its place / again in this kitchen, and it is still my father / telling me... the avocado tree in the backyard for decades / recklessly giving itself away.”
Home Repair // Poetry
“Two painters on ladders coat the trim around a rotting roof. / I’m mesmerized by insertion of beauty into ruin. I’m mesmerized by insertion of beauty into ruin. / I find flaws in everything”
Knowing what is true can be foreign // Poetry
“We cannot create language, only discover it / in cold yellowing leaves and unswept steps. / I want more time so we can look backwards again.”
Night Swimmer // Fiction
“The headlights cut through the night like blades. Out here there is only darkness, only stillness. It’s the same every night.”
Driving with Grandpa // Poetry
“I heard stories of his driving, / although I never experienced it myself. / On steep hills of empty highway / he’d remove the keys from the ignition, / dangle them in the air, and cackle like a fox.”
Crossing the Limen // Creative Nonfiction
“Limen, noun. A border between one thing and another. See also, Threshold. My dad calls and in halting pidgin says he’s been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.”
Harbor // Poetry
“In dreams, missed deadlines, / lost objects, impossible quests. / Flame-colored signal flags
of distress. / The news is bloated with death; / we turn it off, unplug the patient.”
The Plains Speak Grief // Poetry
“Men have plowed and planted, hoed / and harvested, been nurtured / and broken by this land... But / the other side of grief is love and I’ve / got that in spades too.”
The Day Before (a checklist) // Poetry
“Begin.
Count. Consult. Blanks to fill and only so many hours before the list changes.
Observe the first leaves—just a few—gathered against the curb like bedsheets. Yes.”
Donations // Poetry
“Your daughter asks you to buy sunflower seeds. For a snack or a garden?
A snack, she says. You hide your surprise. She always asks for mini chocolate cupcakes... The apple slices, the almonds, the wheat crackers – she ignores them. So you buy the sunflower seeds.”
Homage to My Literary Foremothers // Creative Nonfiction
“Spanish literary critics would have written her out of existence had Carmen Conde not written the date in her diary... Perhaps I will understand the full resonance of tributes when I seek remembrance for myself. Until then, I will create as many homages as I can.”
On a Train // Poetry
“The stars arrive with their secrets, / no moon steals their brilliance / and the clack clack is a soft / percussive track backing up / the singing of the stars.”
Forever to Rosenheit // Fiction
“I were cursed 'bout as early as I can remember... The first city I remember be Rosenheit, and... ‘twill be the last I remember too. I just can’t seem to get away from her, even though the people here be thinkin’ I’m some kind of wicked demon or the like. Maybe they be right.”
Ghost Story // Poetry
“‘No, I don’t know / where everyone went.’ / ...folks move away, / ...drift away with / time & distance. / We all scattered / like cigarette smoke. / Dying isn’t the only way / to become a ghost.”
An Obit // Fiction
“Charles ‘Chuck’ Freeman, 61, was a caring husband, father, grandfather, brother, friend, and dog owner. While his death on March 14th was unexpected to those who knew him, it seems Chuck had long anticipated when his days would be numbered.”
The Happiness Project // Fiction
“The Happiness Project arrives in a manila envelope. My mail carrier, a middle-aged man who rain or shine smiles in his blue, government-issued uniform, slaps the envelope into my hand. He swears what’s inside saved his marriage, will change my whole outlook on life.”
Playing Hooky // Fiction
“‘Sing,’ he said, cracking one of the beers. ‘Do something you’ve never done before.’ Part of me, the part we’re all forced to leave behind in some way at some point, was still on the bus, so I refused. I swiped a beer and ran the cold can across my forehead, biting my bottom lip to keep my mouth closed off from song.”
Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees” // Poetry
“She said trees were uplifting. / So true! They lifted me, / one leaf at a time, / over our town, freeing me, / giving me a fresh look / at where I came from.”
Perspective // Poetry
“Observation deck balances
us over water, tilts
us like old maples
too weary for straight.”
The Roman Bowl // Poetry
“Before this place had its name, its coat of arms, / its mottoes, its borders, a history—it was here / ...this palm-sized piece, this Roman bowl, the closest / thing to heaven most of us will ever know”
“The body is a soft crackling earth... a black-capped chickadee that is asking you to / please not forget / where you came from. ”
Recalling the Narrow Way // Poetry
“I’m grateful for comfort and beauty, / yet—from time to time—I think of those days / when I lived in that elevated ribbon of space, / listening...”
What You Save on the Way Out of a Burning House // Poetry
“a civil war erupted over antique lamps, every knick-knack was another crack / in the dam as a family / divided & conquered each other... There is a banana box / in my guest room closet / with a small stack / of black & white pictures. / They are a curiosity.”
Stark County, Ohio // Creative Nonfiction
“Maybe you’ve heard this first part before, or feared something like it in a dream... My table is laughing, I smile coming up. Pat P., he’s laughing hard. Then I get closer and I see it. My books. JEW written over and over on each book cover, on the covers of my notebooks, filling the covers, some letters huge--JEW JEW JEW. The word covers the covers. The girls are just sitting there. They didn’t stop the boys. The boys are still laughing. I look at the faces. I stare at my books. I don’t know when I start crying. I grab the books and I run… We now call these micro-aggressions, but they weren’t micro, were they, to kids growing up in such an isolated place. Oakwood was the world as we knew it…when Ohio in the 1960s was like other places in the 1950s, a study in silences.”
the poem where I am lit on fire and hauled up high in the air for all of Negaunee to see // Poetry
“the cousin’s absolute total commitment to drink himself to death and the / nursing staff telling us that he can do anything he wants because this is America / and the words are so weird like the endless holes near the mine where we would / lean over / look down / see the bottom’s nighttime / even midday / when the dynamite would explode / and the cracks in our ceiling would lengthen.”
Odessa // Poetry
“but it was the silence after the silence / then came the cries / and then came the crying / I cried she says
and the other women cried too”
From My Window // Poetry
“The chopped blooms drip / from the flattened top / of the pruned bush under which / the cats used to shelter. It rained / hard. So, no cats, and flowers / like candle wax. So, nature, / all tidied up by fashion. / Bales of hay stacked high. / Rivers.”
February/Estoy Aquí // Poetry
“And the next world has found its place / again in this kitchen, and it is still my father / telling me... the avocado tree in the backyard for decades / recklessly giving itself away.”
Home Repair // Poetry
“Two painters on ladders coat the trim around a rotting roof. / I’m mesmerized by insertion of beauty into ruin. I’m mesmerized by insertion of beauty into ruin. / I find flaws in everything”
Knowing what is true can be foreign // Poetry
“We cannot create language, only discover it / in cold yellowing leaves and unswept steps. / I want more time so we can look backwards again.”
Night Swimmer // Fiction
“The headlights cut through the night like blades. Out here there is only darkness, only stillness. It’s the same every night.”
Driving with Grandpa // Poetry
“I heard stories of his driving, / although I never experienced it myself. / On steep hills of empty highway / he’d remove the keys from the ignition, / dangle them in the air, and cackle like a fox.”
Crossing the Limen // Creative Nonfiction
“Limen, noun. A border between one thing and another. See also, Threshold. My dad calls and in halting pidgin says he’s been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.”
Harbor // Poetry
“In dreams, missed deadlines, / lost objects, impossible quests. / Flame-colored signal flags
of distress. / The news is bloated with death; / we turn it off, unplug the patient.”
The Plains Speak Grief // Poetry
“Men have plowed and planted, hoed / and harvested, been nurtured / and broken by this land... But / the other side of grief is love and I’ve / got that in spades too.”
The Day Before (a checklist) // Poetry
“Begin.
Count. Consult. Blanks to fill and only so many hours before the list changes.
Observe the first leaves—just a few—gathered against the curb like bedsheets. Yes.”
Donations // Poetry
“Your daughter asks you to buy sunflower seeds. For a snack or a garden?
A snack, she says. You hide your surprise. She always asks for mini chocolate cupcakes... The apple slices, the almonds, the wheat crackers – she ignores them. So you buy the sunflower seeds.”
Homage to My Literary Foremothers // Creative Nonfiction
“Spanish literary critics would have written her out of existence had Carmen Conde not written the date in her diary... Perhaps I will understand the full resonance of tributes when I seek remembrance for myself. Until then, I will create as many homages as I can.”
On a Train // Poetry
“The stars arrive with their secrets, / no moon steals their brilliance / and the clack clack is a soft / percussive track backing up / the singing of the stars.”
Forever to Rosenheit // Fiction
“I were cursed 'bout as early as I can remember... The first city I remember be Rosenheit, and... ‘twill be the last I remember too. I just can’t seem to get away from her, even though the people here be thinkin’ I’m some kind of wicked demon or the like. Maybe they be right.”
Ghost Story // Poetry
“‘No, I don’t know / where everyone went.’ / ...folks move away, / ...drift away with / time & distance. / We all scattered / like cigarette smoke. / Dying isn’t the only way / to become a ghost.”
An Obit // Fiction
“Charles ‘Chuck’ Freeman, 61, was a caring husband, father, grandfather, brother, friend, and dog owner. While his death on March 14th was unexpected to those who knew him, it seems Chuck had long anticipated when his days would be numbered.”
The Happiness Project // Fiction
“The Happiness Project arrives in a manila envelope. My mail carrier, a middle-aged man who rain or shine smiles in his blue, government-issued uniform, slaps the envelope into my hand. He swears what’s inside saved his marriage, will change my whole outlook on life.”
Playing Hooky // Fiction
“‘Sing,’ he said, cracking one of the beers. ‘Do something you’ve never done before.’ Part of me, the part we’re all forced to leave behind in some way at some point, was still on the bus, so I refused. I swiped a beer and ran the cold can across my forehead, biting my bottom lip to keep my mouth closed off from song.”
Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees” // Poetry
“She said trees were uplifting. / So true! They lifted me, / one leaf at a time, / over our town, freeing me, / giving me a fresh look / at where I came from.”
Perspective // Poetry
“Observation deck balances
us over water, tilts
us like old maples
too weary for straight.”
The Roman Bowl // Poetry
“Before this place had its name, its coat of arms, / its mottoes, its borders, a history—it was here / ...this palm-sized piece, this Roman bowl, the closest / thing to heaven most of us will ever know”