He’s losing the lot all over again. New routines do not exist. It is mature. Everything chiseled into stone gets digitized, perhaps. Logarithms asexually inhabit the whole thing—nonplussed. The unnamable becomes ineffable as It’s damaged. We are the fabric, stitched together in storms to be torn asunder, too fast and weak for immortality. At one’s private end being embraces Its self, tumbling into the nakedness of a future dreamed. The babe is gone, but the dog worries the child into hiding somewhere in the street.
This story was selected as a finalist for the 2021 MAYDAY Fiction Prize. There’s been a crisis of eggs. Tia Mari’s eggs, to be exact. I call them the rainbow eggs due to their astonishing, colored patterns. She’s collected them all her life. Her nickname, Marihuevo, was inspired by her obsession. Tio Javi is trying […]
If you are not in a hurry I will make a pot of coffee too. The riptides pull at the coast speaking in the tongues Oceans speak. The gulls rip their way through the lift And account for the folk sitting inside their Toyotas, V.W.s, Chevrolets, in the lot at the corner of x […]
I don’t know what makes a country a country. If the sea softening an edge of land is enough to say, this is mine and that is yours. There were nights in Tripoli when there was room for us. When the sky pulled up the wings of gulls and we watched their bodies rise from […]