To move the nights along you have taken to performing tremendous acts of dental hygiene. You begin with careful brushing using all-natural wintergreen “tooth powder” that you picked up at a life-enhancement retreat, because your friends think you are the kind of person who uses all-natural wintergreen “tooth powder” and would appreciate being invited to a life-enhancement retreat. After the careful brushing is the flossing, each tooth one by one, even the ones that bleed, one by one, and after you finish you do it a second time just to make sure you are doing it right …Read article
Listen to the poem below:
I just got my heart busted and now I canʼt dream straight.
Everything comes out cracked
I used to have nighthoughts about little monsters
That burst round the bedroom in smiles and fur;
Now I only see shards of many-colored glass
Spinning and spinning in the air,
And broke-up phrases of music, violin music,
Old-people music mostly, I think.
And the little monsters go in and out of the dreams in curves
And round bends with train-whistle songs under the violin music
And conductors of symphonies and stations with …
Listen to the poem below.
You’re not following me out
of the Brooklyn Publick House
but the Berkshires instead
in 1999, the night
was hit by lightning
in a fishing boat
on a lake in Orlando
casting off despite
Are you thinking about it, too,
as the door opens. Your arms
on my shoulders, following
me down a trail, trial
laced with pitfalls – rocks, divots
clefts (the twelve years it’s been?)
at three or four in the morning.
Richard King Perkins II
If we finish in this way, morning slips back into night
and the night starts to shine. What begins the chanting?
What, beyond the valley, makes the others sing?
Last month, in the gullies, the deeper gouges, a single
bullfrog was tumbled into weeds of homelessness.
Most days, we’ll hear its distressed call, sometimes
doglike, sometimes almost human. Skin dusted with quiet,
needing puddle or rain. And then the slow drumbeat,
lead striking lead, in the tall grasses. It could almost be
a child; restless dreaming in the wilderness. A young son
who slipped away one …
I was on a park bench with my wife and son when the news arrived. Jimmy had been murdered in a desert worlds away. My son was lost in his first-ever root beer float, and I felt something inside me shatter–something small but suddenly desperately important–something I didn’t know I needed, but now could barely breathe without.
That morning–hours before I got the news about Jimmy–my three year-old son tucked his toy cell phone into his underpants instead of his pocket and he and I went outside. He hooked a tape measure on the waistband of his shorts …Read article
Cristina J. Baptista
Listen to the poem below.
Everything is transmutable in this light.
I am the only daughter of an only daughter of an only daughter—
and I’m not sure if that’s supposed to mean anything,
or if being anything at all
brings me any closer
to knowing who I am.
I learned a language of fingers and breaths:
takings, offerings, and bitings.
Mine is a world of huffing over letters first thing in the morning,
too busy to turn up the heat.
I fill no cup of desires,
either of porcelain or hands:
I prefer boxes and …