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Google tells me they are hyper-seasonal, highly coveted. my yard tells me they are hyper-attainable, highly abundant. on awinding drive up a rocky road to the mountains, my lover tells me ramps are ramps. got it. i grew upjust four hours north of here, so why do ramps feel so foreign? i rip them from my driveway, root and stem, and tossthem aside. a proper burial is
It is St. Patrick’s Day, 1989, and I am fifteen years old. On that Friday evening, Demetris, a friend from school, is at a party. I am known as a social butterfly because I am outgoing and funny, and make people feel comfortable without being terrible. Demetris, a year older, also possesses these traits, and perhaps this is the crux of our friendship. Though I am not at the party; rather, I am at home watching TV— Moonlighting or Murder, She Wrote or The Golden Girls—cradled inside the four walls of my small bedroom in the tract home off Euclid Avenue in southeast San Diego that my pa...
The immortal dogs of my fictions,exhausted from centuries of fetch,are laid out in puddles of sunor rummaging for slugsin the banks of soggy leaves.It is autumn, and the airis a bakery of dander and pollen.It is autumn, and the immortaldogs of my fictions are sniffingand digging for ancient wisdoms.In the bulges of mulch, in theoutstretched hands of children,there is something
Tottenham HaleIf I were to startagain, I’d startat the end of the long,unbending street.The Turkish restaurantby Christ’s Pieces.King’s Cross.Or the bus as it leechesmy heart, so sick a thingit almost longs for woe.You see—less changedthan I ought to be.If you knew, you’d laughwith the rest of us.What, O God, ensuresmy song?Grace, my love. Yearssince I’ve touched it.
—a painting by the British artist J. M. W. Turner.