Social Work

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

Mrs. Honig

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