a hammock of winter sleep in the armpit of the highway / a log truck raises its voice above the monotone / sound accelerates down the liquid sheet / polyvinyltraffic cones idle in powder’s mouth / a lone pigeon drives the emptiness home Eimear Laffan’s...
On Saturday morning there was a man on the Balboa Island promenade painting a copy of The Raft of the Medusa. He stood on the sand on the other side of the sea-wall. Aaron and I stopped our walk to watch him. Aaron told him it was a cool painting and that he had just...
Photo by Vic Hinterlang / Shutterstock.com We drive south, in the direction of the McAllen Foreign Trade Zone, where my husband’s machine shop is nestled among many others of similar vein, and the international bridge—one of twenty-eight conduits of sanctioned traffic...
Photo by Jay Dobkin, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons Before I walk you to the train, I have to stoplooking at you for the hour preceding thismoment, in which we are late to the train & you are, therefore, late to your new job, & in thispre-moment, which...
Photo by ParentingPatch, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons A woman sits down beside you in Gallery 114. “Do you know,” she says, “these were installed just as my mother was dying. “As she got sick, got worse, got that terrible treatment.” You look at her and...
I didn’t expect three years and 3,000 miles to evaporate in an instant. I didn’t expect the air to feel like teeth through blueberries in summer’s first pie or the smell of rain on an afternoon that waffles between should we go to Bathtub Gin and I wish you could...
