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Memoryexpand_moreCharlie wasn’t Lena’s first love, but he counted on being her last.
I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.
“Oh, Jesus.” It’s the greatest shame since 1929’s stock market.
We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.
I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
They cut you off, let fall your hammered silver bracelets to the sand.
Your friends are sniffing glue from a paper bag in the back of an Impala.
I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.
Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden was edited by Tom Jenks.
It seemed to her that they only ever touched each other in transient, sudden ways.
It is the night of whores and monsters, but without the killings.
Ajax can answer all this killing only with the killing of himself.
Slice a finger while opening a beer can, fizz the gin high in tumblers.
We press closer to look at a picture: a handcuffed boy leaning toward us.
Let him search, Tricia thought, who knew what he might discover.
“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.
Neither fame nor wealth could provide consolation for life’s brevity.
She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.
Lebanon’s sky was full of stars. The sky here doesn’t have any stars.
Lillian-Yvonne Bertram
She only eats condiments, pickles, slices of sharp cheddar.
I try to believe that even when cords are cut or people die we connect.
If life is an open vein, what’s brave about a sleeve-heart, sweetheart?
Our brains interpolate from surrounding images, fooling us.
Corn repeats itself into a haze of tassels and sheaving leaves.
Your words will strike her heart like Saint Teresa’s flaming arrow.
The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.
Dan Gerber reads poems of boyhood, and from the end of his mother’s life.
