American Primitive

Lori Lamothe A hawk glides in on the music of lawnmowers. The light’s a sieve, darkness sifts down. The wingtips of the hawk brush the grass and in a single bound its shadow soars over the ghosts of television sets haunting identical houses. The wingspan of the hawk cuts a path through the air and… More


Lori Lamothe Substitutions so glib you hardly notice them that’s what you’re looking for. If you can find all fourteen before the hourglass inverts and ketchup splatters across the chests of twin cowboys you’ll win an all expense paid trip to fluorescence. Not a lasso but a golden ring. Not boots but cross-trainers. Only ten… More