You squat over the lip of a sidewalk, your tiny feet separated for proper balance. When it rains, the worms are freed from flowerbed soil. They always, always emerge to swim in the collecting waters. You’re a social worker, a professional strictly scheduled to work on rainy mornings in a pair of purple cotton pants that softly outline the globe of your Pampers. You rub one muddy finger against a shirt already slickened to your nipples. Continue reading
Baba’s faults were pouched in me, so red
and erratic that they had blown the power
in the northeastern half of the country.
From our stoop, we feel the night
sponging up the heat wave. The concrete
steps practice prose on my thighs. Continue reading
I think all you wanted by then was to feel
the tuft of a paintbrush along your fingers.
The cold, pressed hospital sheets blotted your sweat.
You seeped air from a slack upper lip.
Mrs. Honig, there was nothing
wrong with dusk—yawning
open like Georgia’s last blossom, swallowing
you with wet acrylic on your heels. Continue reading