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Casanova

When you greeted each other / your palms / like embers in cigarette stubs / red and hot / showed from your sleeves


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Interview: 7 Questions for Megan Mayhew Bergman

When I was growing up, I idolized a woman whose animal rescue habits ended up driving her husband away. I think she’s lurking in this story...

Silent Guest

Morning comes and he pauses beside my bed. He struggles to breathe, his breath brushing my face. Without opening my eyes, I make a space where he can curl…

Interview: 7 Questions for Megan Mayhew Bergman

When I was growing up, I idolized a woman whose animal rescue habits ended up driving her husband away. I think she’s lurking in this story...

From the Archives

Harborless

If I had known all boats eventually yield / to the current, I would have readied myself / long ago

Two Poems: The Town & Home

Is it really warranted, for you to bring a gun to New York, city of high achievement? Thoughtless we both stood, me, trying to talk you down from taking an overdose of cerulean powder, you, intent on ingesting a headlamp so you could witness the inner beatings of your gut.

Three Fictions

It’s late on a Saturday night and Metalhead is at some kid’s basement party. The kid got the new Slayer album that afternoon and has it blaring because his parents are not home. Rockgod holds both hands up in the air like he is prey for bandits, but the rest of his body convulses, his head shaking back and forth, up and down and windmilling along with the drum beat. Metalhead laughs and then there is a body careening into him, pushing him into another kid who is jumping and shimmying against the wall because heavy metal is the stuff that binds kids together, the fray that keeps their blood inside them. When Metalhead’s sister has her friends over, they dance in the living room to Madonna or Culture Club while his father complains that the music is too loud. Metalhead can feel the guitar in his teeth, can feel the speakers’ rumble deep in his chest.

My Mother's Face

my mother leaning in listening / her usual face her yesterday’s face / out cold on the couch

From the Blog

MASS CULTURE AND THE AMERICAN POET:
THE POEM AS VACCINATION

I once drove around southwest Arizona with a photographer named Pedro, from Mexico City. His specialty was making ethnographic forays into North America,…

Travels with Steve, and Good Writing

My old friend and former teacher Steve Orlen and I walked many miles together along the wide avenues of Tucson, Arizona. Our promenades usually took place…