Trans-Boy Rising

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  Hair chopped short as it will get. The risen boy practices forgetting as the pilgrim does. He is a vocabulary of starlings and salt.    

[body farm] [soul photograph/double exposure] [late light]

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                                                after Sally Mann                          —silk and honey the hair is after so much rain // but not the skin // the skin is coral // leaf-torn & bee-pitted // humped up & sloping to where the neck is vapor // … Read More

Self-portrait

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  Let the wind whip a canvas with coffee grounds and leaves, the easel upright on a porch with boards missing like molars. Give the wind time and pigment: the reedmace-colored whiskey my grandfather hid in his overcoat, the pistol-black … Read More

Hallucination

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  Another haunting symptom her late Dementia Won’t let me forget. I mean that night I found her Sitting straight up in bed. All glassy-eyed: “Look at him. Oh look at how tired he is. My father. He has to … Read More

Head to expose

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  only after a thorough comparison                   of clutch and diet,              with meager fruit and seed                  regimens avoided                                 (before I attempt a change of nest)                                        ° °              with what deliberation                 do you deposit food               deep … Read More

Stranded on Old US 1, Appling, Georgia

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  Steam rose from the old black Ford. You could see where the engine block had cracked, but not where the auto industry hit the wall– goodbye DeSoto, goodbye Edsel– goodbye factory jobs, payrolls and little shops. Goodbye father’s office. … Read More

Emendation

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  I don’t have to go back to my childhood, there’s nothing there I still want: but of miracles left to me, I’d like to restore a look I once wore and release it in the air. That year I … Read More

Siren

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              … for we know everything that the Argives and Trojans           did and suffered in wide Troy through the gods’ despite.                     Odyssey XII, 189-90 (trans. Lattimore)     Look. There’s Homer under a mastic tree listening to water and … Read More

In the Walk-in

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  You come from behind— press me up against industrial shelves fingers tacky with sugar my arms full thick bricks of butter tumble when you kiss my neck I tug your cotton apron’s edges waist strings bow loose at your … Read More

Playing Dead

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             for my son Graham   The room shatters with giggles before your hand’s thin worms burrow my ears. When that fails they hook inside my cheeks and nose. Two thumbs pry my eyelids back—tent flaps hazing a pink … Read More

Postmortem

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  In 1793, during the French Revolution,          Charlotte Corday was executed by guillotine for the assassination          of Jean-Paul Marat. After her head fell into the basket with a sickening          thump, like an overripe cantaloupe or a coconut, the device’s carpenter … Read More

Meditation

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            after Baudelaire   Settle down now, sadness. It’s time for bed. You asked for evening. Well, here it is. A fine mist covers the city like dread. It may look peaceful, but trust me, it isn’t. People can … Read More

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