Gnarled rest-home fingers— like roots coiling into themselves —remember their parents.
Do not count the minutes the hours the aches of your waiting the distance of touches Do not count the weeks the months the lines around eyelids the hairs turning grey Do not count the years the decades the blinks between birthdays the fathoms of remembering
we are doing a scene things are going great no one has forgotten a line, and everyone’s timing is on point a familiar little girl is peering in through the glass door behind the kitchen table we can just make her out she is very pretty, and is shyly mimicking our movements it looks like… Continue reading Outside of this sitcom
The public pool we broke into each summer was filled in long ago. On days bright as this I still swim in it with you.
Never forget: every moment ever lived lives on— even long, long after it is forgotten —it lives on.
Under an old oak tree a husband slaps his wife’s ass. She turns her head over her shoulder, peering down at him from the slope they both lie on. “Did you like that?” he asks in a silly voice. She narrows her eyes, looking annoyed. He does it again. “How how about that? Did you… Continue reading Happy memories
I came round today, but when I reached your door I balked... went and sat where we’d drunk down the block, and I thought, I hadn’t come to see you, but to return to a place we were at when my ears were still smooth, and the hairs on yours were still black. A place… Continue reading Your door
Tip toeing through the eye of the storm, my Aunty passed in a shadow – her white head buried in a black umbrella. A blur to her as I turned to watch her leave the past behind – in pursuit of 400 sleeping tablets. Tip toeing through the eye of the storm I sped, hoping… Continue reading The eye of the storm
A wild wind swashbuckles in, irrepressible— vases deflowered, scuttled tea boats, dressers laid bare! Mended dishes still reminisce, cast aquiver in its wake.
Return me to the yawns of slumbering pets to purrs stretched endless across my neck Now echoes only—in groans of dinner bloat the squeaks of gasses escaping middle-age in wheezing bedrooms, in pulmonary strain Return me to nights anticipated to shapes and sounds uncovered every morning Now known in the grinding turn of the ignition… Continue reading Return me