a boy, with stains of juice ringing his mouth turned and asked his mother —How long do I have stay here? —On earth.
I part her legs for the pulp. Unsolve the tempest. Landlocked bodies silent as a shipwreck in a gale.
My wife senses my growing pains, and does not love me as she did when we were eighteen.
I didn’t hear from you for two weeks, so I assumed you were dead. Walking home late at night, I imagined I might find you somewhere in the shadow of a tree.
I didn’t know how to tell her I was more horrified by a story than by the cerebrospinal fluid collecting obscenely in her dying brain.
There are babies in cribs built on old motors and worn engines, with shards of glass caked in their fingernails and motor oil stuck in their teeth.
Sweet Mother of Jesus look and learn, Macky, my boy. Learn of the woman's high heels, low neck, short skirt, tight-belted waist for the love of Saints Peter and Paul.
I love the blood that makes me a woman, that connects me to the moon. To the ocean tides.