We sat in her blue Jetta smoking our favorite cigarettes and talking about our least favorite things. Her very least was me. I knew the obvious answer was her but…
“But, on the other hand, there were the leaves. Mrs. Darling examined them very carefully; they were skeleton leaves, but she was sure they did not come from any tree…
for Anne Sexton I circle the bed, where the daughter sleeps her hundred year slumber. She bleeds. She is not a child. Pricked by the thirteenth’s needle, she sleeps the…
The Moon walked along the coast in the same white lace her mother wore the night she was born. While the tide was still low, the Moon lay down, bruising…
Aurora hangs her dress on a hawthorn tree with needles sharp and slightly curved as if to sew. The berries bright red are ready to be plucked to make a…
Off into the woods, 180 acres of lost. I carried no breadcrumbs, no plan to map my way back. Home itself, a sly cottage of honeyed lies set amidst the…
Some see me as the Erl King, spiriting children away, and some as a kind of saint, rescuing them from God knows what sort of life. Many feel sorry I…
I. The day will come. Don’t flinch. Stand tall: redwood spine, antelope eyes. Shake the mud from your boots. …
Down the road of leftover consonants, I walked. My feet crackled against the steel rims of Ls and Zs, against the armature of an entire language. A sea of words…
He speaks “Australian,” waves his gun to disco. I picture your tank-topped, pink-goggled alter ego after the power grid burns out, West Coast overrun, gasoline gangs and post-urbanites foraging for…
Gingerbread House Lit Mag 