586 Readings


The dust slung in the broad threads of light bracing the heat, the heat the pulsing inner tissue of a lung, crashing into trees.

Somewhere on the wall of the field cicadas eat the world into ragged edges as you sit with your mother in a new dress, and the soft-focus pink clouds sink into the broken fuzz of small talk.

Your mother the most beautiful mother, with the prettiest hair, the hair sunning and unsunning itself in the screen flicker, thickening into tendons in the underblanket glow of the projection beam, a red aura at the rim of the jaw where the light moves more slowly.

Now with broad flecks of hair caught at the corner of the lip, which you brush away with one hand, her face sinking into the screen.

On the screen a bicycle grained with rust at the chain and sprocket, spinning upward and back through the air, water broad-petaling out from the tires.

And somewhere the speaker static drifting like ashes into the choke of cut grass.

Posted 01/15/12
Published in cream city review (Spring 2010)
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