Imagine her saying, as she settles, “Good God, Ben, my constant pessimist. Give it a rest. I’m not here to fry.” And imagine a pebble loosened from the clifftop, falling. Impacting her skull. There would be damage.
And, too, the minding of where to step – the one rotten apple in the shade with the bees feasting.
In my history, I was the prettiest girl in town who was seduced by the summer eclipse or the hellion who stole the keys of Daddy’s 1958 Impala
Her many-boned arm comes out and there in her hand is a tattoo gun, already buzzing and dripping ink.
What I can’t quite say to my husband, or to myself: that it is you I am thinking of as I take the armadillo from the shelf.
There’s nothing quite so sinister as a hot wind on a California night.
Juan's skeleton walks out of the water, his bones dripping with bulbous ribbons of olive-green seaweed.
You bump into White Boy on a parched, irreverent Wednesday morning, power-walking your way to line up for the three hour commute at 6 AM, and too loud he announces, I am in love with your country.
I need to speak now; he’s expecting it. Waiting for an answer. Summoning all my energy, I push the air from my lungs, forcing it over the golf ball wedged in my throat.
Hope is a naked goose that made a wrong turn somewhere.