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
amidst my deadlines death circles closer / shifting from internet strangers to friends of friends / everyone is angry this week / the novelty of it all gone completely a thin impenetrable film of tension left behind / little things piss me off like why can’t I open a goddamn piece of […]
In Aldama’s nightmare, Robustelli severed an ear. They had the barbershop to themselves that afternoon—Bernal’s chair stood vacant between them—and customers crowded the benches along the window. It must have been a Saturday, because Aldama recognized several weekend regulars: Steinhoff, the florist from across the street; the twelve-year-old triplets whose mother insisted on distinct haircuts; […]
“He kicked free. Climbed out, coughing. Told no one. And took the lesson
into himself like a rusty nail to the foot: secret wound, slow poison.”
