“Resolution in Loving Memory of Sky and Gooseflesh” (four selections)

Having begun now to burn bright as the fires that bore it, having, As so many things, become of what it was from the first the apparent Equal, transformed only through atomization, through display, Those distinctive signatures of the miraculous and its window dressers’ Ongoing project–Design’s gentrification of a vulgar, impoverished Real–, Which, on-schedule, over-budget,… More

Lamaze

The instructor said to loosen my knees, to wallow in my pain, to low, even. My head and forearms on her counter, I was shaking it slow for my wife watching with the rest. I felt exactly like a man trying to act like a woman to be thought of as the kind of man… More

I must be honest with myself: sometime

in the future will be violence, sometime a gun will appear in a public place and bodies will fall, for here, where my daughter four days old on my chest sleeps, her fontanel against my chin, is America. I’ve known it all along. Sometime bullets will rip through sheetrock, and someone’s neighbor will enter a… More

Enough Muscular Grace

1. How strangely satisfied I am constructing containment as I assemble my child’s crib. Side-rail A’s tongue judders into the headboard’s groove, and a bolt spins in. Torquing the Allen wrench, I’m godlike: it disappears in my squeeze, burrows another bolt. But step two requires translation. Language—another of so many cribs, the human tongue honed… More

Mazza’s Vignette #101

If the marrow was fireworks and alcohol, the quick promises that never bother to shrug when they run out of technique, then we should have never worried when the last five years looked eerily similar to a dog humping the air to completion. Darren C. Demaree‘s poems have appeared, or are forthcoming in The South… More

Soul Life

I wake and walk in a body that demands daily but suffers not. Neither saint nor ruler angel nor power neither things present past or to come shall be my water. For as necessary as air and as unnoticed as my beating heart I go forth from within, boundaryless, infinite. Yvonne Higgins Leach‘s work has… More

Three Starlings

In the bare upper branches of a still-standing, colonial-era hanging tree recruited, reputedly, for intransigent young blacks, perch three starlings, widely spaced, still as the winter afternoon, silent as a boy left lynched, stiff in a hunkered-down way that suggests they will not fly away from this strangled place until— as they bear hard witness… More