Contributed By: Heather Kirn
Father, no sir. Your keys are in Cali,
sunk to the sediment of no man’s tomb.
Vent a pregnant tune. Feed polenta
to a sick kid in Cairo from your tiara.
Pan him, know him, quote giddy anthems
that no business holds dear.
And diminish no busy Lolita, no sir;
stick it to no timid debutante’s nostril.
At nine or so, induct us
with ten tattered omens said liberally
and with marshmallow. Amen.
Return to table of contents for Issue 3 Fall 2010
It’s getting worse than I thought it would, as I fade into the old man with the cane and bedroom slippers. This one is stuck in the history he can’t let go, while trying to clear the streets in the city he’s still lost in. I’ve spent my life imagining the next city or the […]
Tonight it hits me y de repente I’m struck by acid understanding: assimilation es una trampa de los devotos de la ausencia. I mean, quién de nosotros would lust wildly for her own disappearance? We must speak nuestras lenguas or cease to exist, correcto? So our tongues flicker-trip over linguistic borders, spitting blue-green fire with […]
Since He took you away I still do no work, and never break a sweat. Mostly I’ve taken to making the animals mate for my amusement. So I, like my Maker, have brought forth new life: one creature, the mule, eyes me cantankerously and resents being fed. I spend much time with it, feeling like, […]
