• Gerljean.

    My sister is my memory. Don’t you remember? She says. And I do.   June bugs tied to a string. Asphalt iridescent with summer heat. A slick copperhead in the creek bed, interrupted midfeast. The thick smell of honeysuckle.   When the men have lined up in their pajamas, we will climb back into our… Continue Reading

  • Doe, Jane.

    Google Maps shows the street view of where you lay, shallow in the weeds, listening to the night sounds.  The muted drone of planes overhead,  your body in the flight path of travelers headed up and away. The backfire of the car’s engine.                        … Continue Reading

  • Ruin porn.

    The upper arms softly undulate. A lip of flesh slips over the Cesarean section scar. A constellation of cellulite on the backs of the thighs. The breasts at repose against the ribcage. Some people travel to the streets of Detroit’s west side to rubberneck at the burned out remains of a once flourishing landscape. I… Continue Reading

  • Birchwood. Part Two.

    A short work of true fiction.  They were eight, six and eighteen months when we moved in. Alexia, Carolanne and Anngrace. Alexia, the oldest, was eight. Shoulder-length brown hair, olive skin, sharp nose and cheekbones.  Narrow green eyes and a whippet-thin mouth held in a tight line. Tall for her age, she kept her broad… Continue Reading

  • Hypothermia.

    The Greeks understood the allure of misery; pathos an unadulterated linguistic equation of want and suffering, disease and feeling. The etymology of despair and desire a cold water shock causing the victim to transform. Confused, uncoordinated, tongue-tied. We voluntarily inhale and drown.

  • Keepin’ it real.

    In the movies heat is an aphrodisiac. The slow drip of sweat between the breasts; a salty solicitation. Gradually sloping down the belly, following the curve of the thigh. The clear juices of a fruit, ripe for picking. In reality, it’s too damn hot. Touch me before the mercury dips below 85 degrees, and I… Continue Reading

  • Maybe before.

    Maybe my seventeen year-old son will be walking down the street with a bag of Skittles in his hand. Maybe he will have smoked a joint with friends before taking his walk. Maybe he will be wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Maybe he will be talking on his cell phone. Maybe he will hear your steps… Continue Reading