This reminds me of that film, the one in the language neither of us spoke. A cartoon of two mallards in a frozen pond surround by a city. We never learned how they arrived. Perhaps an earlier story before we were born. I commented on their quacks that turned to screams. You were drawn to their fierce flapping, their feathers so much like slicks of oil. You remarked how it should have taken longer for them to die. I said it was pacing to keep the emotion real.
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The children disappointed re-watching; a hope that the ducks are freed, a revival of religious proportions. Through the eyes of adults, the way in which children find death is tragic.
His poems appear in online and print journals as well as in anthologies. Originally from New Jersey he currently lives in Boise, but dreams of a small cottage with a Koi pond in Portland. A wonderful poet could transmute a father out of recycled cork: squeaky, wine-scented embrace.
A good poet could arrange popsicle sticks into an ambulance shape and sacrifice the embers. Brand new poets could at least regurgitate a birthday cake, ferment it, and imbibe. All I want is for poetry and God and my wife and my children to not be enough. I need to need a spell, an ancient altar where I burn something precious for his real face:.
About one in fifty people have aphantasia: they cannot conjure imagery in their minds. If you think they operate at a deficit, you have probably never seen the embalmed hands of someone who made you laugh and cry. If I kept you from a life of perfect knowledge, I am sorry Stephanie. If your brain is a paint bucket now, upending and clogging your spine, I am picking dried acrylics out of my vertebrae, too. Most recently, his erasure poetry was highlighted on New Republic and Poetry Foundation. His first chapbook was published by Rinky Dink Press in He lives in Tampa, Florida with his wife and twin daughters.
After they tell her, she feels her face move unnaturally, imagines all her hair must be standing on end. The nurse just smiles sadly and asks what she wants to do. Hedera Helix, commonly called English ivy, is an evergreen climbing plant found through out Europe and Asia. It is often considered invasive due to its ability to grow quickly under a variety of adverse conditions. Dropped by a bird, the seed germinates and sends a single shoot up out of the ground, searching for sunlight and something to grab hold of. Another thing to love that would someday die.
Running across the yard, each year bigger than the last, she imagined the dog running across interstates and highways, playing frogger with her sanity as she stood helplessly by. She flinches at the thought, tries to bleach her brain of potential tragedies. The first year, the ivy wont grow much at all. The second year, it begins to pick up speed.
The plant attaches itself to surfaces through a series of aerial rootlets with matted pads.
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The vines creep upward and outward, worming into cracks in brick, between the grain of rotting wood, and underneath laminate siding and roof shingles. In nature, ivy slowly chokes the life from larger trees by taking sunlight and nutrients for itself instead. Lydia lets her dig holes in the backyard.
She hunts for moles with unwavering intensity. Occasionally one winds up dead on the porch, its guts stuck to the ground and dry from the sun. The dog has stopped eating as much. The dog begins to walk with a limp. Lydia imagines that her own hip hurts, too. Healthy ivy can grow three feet a year, both upward and outward. Once firmly rooted beneath the siding or cinderblock foundation of a house, it can be difficult to remove and potentially dangerous.
As roots are pulled from a surface, they tend to take it with them.
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What will she do with the body? At night she listens for the snoring at her feet, holding her breath in the dark as the dog stops—is this the moment? Once mature, the ivy flowers and produces small clusters of purple-black berries. Black-birds and thrushes rely on the berries for food and are responsible for seed dispersal in surrounding areas. After many years, ivy can grow over feet, and completely overtake a building.
She has an adorable dog named Bunny. The southern sea was storming, a point beyond the compass.
The ground I stood on surged. I remembered how you want me. A golden raven took off the road. She has three collections in Bulgarian. Visit her page here. I woke up and you taped a letter to my shoelace gold leaf painted wood. Louis home. I sit with you as you drive yourself to the airport, the freelance gig to film something.
I watch people line up outside the medicaid office on the south side. I blur through the city, corner stores with 99 cent soda and billboards for storage spaces. I just want to be without the burden of my history for you. She tweets often: hellodeliaaaaa. In the summer, empathetic to soup cans, I abandon tins on the bookshelf, films of scuzz congealing above tomato bisque, cheddar broccoli.
Instead, I sneak scraps from the junkyard, stripped from a rust-withered jalopy. Once, on an airplane, I slipped out the flask I had smuggled through security, chewed its screw-top until sundered. After I am wrestled to the aisle floor, I taste for the first time scotch, taped to tongue like a memory not yet cemented.
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Consider spilling brown onto the hard drive, letting it fry. Even after the liquor corrodes my throat, metallic skin bloomed a sick green hue, I archive moments unremarkable enough to obliterate. What else to delete in search of a quiet interface: passwords, bank card numbers? Consider how torment might too be only the silent reverberations after a high note. The holy silence of the disconnected.
What else must we name Heaven before we become it? They are the co-founder of literary non-profit The Unspoken Word. On his horse in his gray stripes and painted-on hat he wrote prose to unborn granddaughters, post-scripts to Mary the blue sea slug, Chris her brother, every shard in the whole trampled scene. I head home. I listen to steady light rain on the shell of a wandering turtle that every few years I return to the creek. Midnight, children quiet as painting of saints in a long hallway that no one has ever entered.
Midnight, our bed like a long gray whale, its belly pressed like one tine of a rake into the zen garden of the seafloor. Midnight, your hand on my leg like a major seventh minus the third and the fifth. Thing after indigestible thing, each one praying silently and yet I hear them all. Midnight, and yet day comes — I wake to see a deer in the backyard, and I wonder how what we grow could possibly keep him alive. In the shower in the cold light of morning we admire the new rust color of your nails. Acres away and in the future a stag rubs the last of his velvet against the back of a pine.
I breathe fog.