At night my eyelids flutter like birds— crazy ones, like in Hitchcock. Thought upon thought upon thought lines up in my head like ducks to be shot at the fair. The ozone layer—my friend who hasn’t called—did I send the Visa bill?
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The airport is full of peoplewho look like people we used to know. Every third face a memory, a whelming obligationto say hello to another not quite so-and-so.Swallow your tongue.He is not your father who stands in the terminal—a pillar—the same totem-carved face, the same crag-eyed detachment.He won’t
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I take this beating heart out and place it on the ground next to me. I won’t need it anymore. Please, take away my ability to feel, This cavernous pain in the hollow of me. Pulsating. Ringing out. Exacerbated. Am I a
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The wolf woman takes out the last of her curlers, puts her slippered feet up on the coffee table. Well-fed, she settles in for a lazy morning. If those sons of Ask and Embla don’t want her eating them, they shouldn’t taste
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Joe and Audrey reached 57 Oracle Road. A skeletal fist punched through the center of the teardrop-shaped gate, its index finger curling upwards. A jack-o’-lantern filled with orange and black sweets hung from the finger. Above it, a cardboard sign read: Help
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Trying to avoid the snails after the night’s rainstorm, the crack and squelch of sorrow DS Maolalai has been nominated nine times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is
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“In the middle of the charnel ground . . . we can finally contemplate groundlessness.” —Pema Chodron I. Our mothers do us a grave injustice, telling us we’re special, that our drawing is the best in our kindergarten class, that we are the
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Shirley Jackson used to be my best friend but even then I didn’t really like her because she was better than me at everything. She was prettier, for one thing, and even though neither of us wanted a boyfriend she could have
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We’re hanging in deep heatover the husk of old Abilene, a host of buzzard tourists in teal and tungsten anti-grav Wellingtons. The guide-track waxes wisein our sprouted earbuds: Through the last days,their abandoned missile silos filled with slant rain. The locals dove deep in those dark pools, came up
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it’s easier to clean up after a party of one. close the bag of doritos, turn off netflix, and it’s almost like it never happened. i long for the echo of laughter in my ears, for glitter still pressed on my body, for sweat that smells like someone else, for
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