“Three Stories Soldiers Still Tell”
Gigantic Sequins (forthcoming 2017)
Here is a story that the soldiers still tell:
It is about Alexander in the red rods of the setting sun.
Boy wore red shoes. The soles were leather; the laces were like silk. Soft, soft. No socks. Only little feet. Ten thorny toes. Two plantar warts. Metatarsal bones.
Tarsus to carpus: Boy opened the door. He regarded the room.
The Collagist (2015)
In the desert, the physicist lets the air out of his tires. They deflate and flatten into the sand, air spitting past the depressed pin and pressure gauge. His subordinates gather around him like debts and express their skepticism. The other training teams aren’t doing this, his subordinates say. Are you sure this will work?
The physicist nods.
“O” and “Sweet Mouth” from Ash
A-Minor Magazine (2015)
The horned pater god stitches himself into the night sky. The future is there, in a fissure of the cosmos; it is an ancient lust-puzzle and the pater god’s grief is a quake maker: brittle stars shiver and their axes open. The pater god moans. She will never love me.
“Heat #2 (interruption)”
—hands as hard as peach pits and in them objects arranged—ornament over structure—to denote tendernesses. Ribbons piled on pins: that is for remembrance; and scissors: that is for thoughts. And three flat hairs, sooty and long, plucked from brush bristles.
Aza like a cat on the floor twists her hips and simpers and crows.
Caketrain, Issue 08 (2010)
Just as he furrows his fields, your father furrows his forehead. He speaks of cotton, corn, citrus—his things—and opening up his dirty palms, he grasps the ashy air. His squat skeleton settles within his shriveling body and beneath his flannel shirt and sacred layers, he sweats. The fire has jumped the mountains; the valley is burning.
I wonder whether she foresaw me as I have witnessed her, the progenitor of our curse, wearing white and weaving with arthritic hands and bone needles and one, red thread. Her eyes wide and her purple veins webbing under open pores and into the clutched crevices of her nostrils, I have seen her smiling over us, laughing, weaving, clucking. This is the image that I have of her.
“His Placid Piano Notes”
The Albion Review (2006)
He had come upon her in the early morning hours, his eyelids pried wide at the glass pipe that emerged from between the open prongs of her jawbone. Her throat, splashed red like a hummingbird’s, caught his stare and held it, drew it away from the twisted body and the coarse brown dress that she wore like unpresuming plumage.