More Delicious

Where does the pain go
when she stops
feeling it? When
it is no longer

masked by
drugs or delusion. When
the physical becomes
emotional becomes

psychological dares
to become
spiritual. Couldn’t it
just be?


Pain is
a messenger
she would like

to shoot
if she had
a gun. If

she believed
in that sort
of thing. If

she had
better aim. If
she wasn’t

sometimes in
love with it—him.

Discard Pile Thief

“We quote each other only when we’re wrong.”
—Jay Farrar (Uncle Tupelo), from “High Water” (Anodyne)

A half dozen
roses tossed
onto a snow bank. A garment
bag with wheels
going in circles
on a carousel

of time. Three
sisters, one
mother, a wife, two
children under
four. One father—
recently dead. A box of notes

for a novel
scrapped without
a plot. A birthday
gift for a modern
novelist—long dead. A bowl
of yellow split

pea soup without
a spoon. Six
roses in the wrong

kind of water.
The dialogue
that preceded them.

All the quotation
marks she saved
just in case.

O, Brother, Where Art Thou?

No one walks
this way

forever. No one waits
for the call

without some skin
crawling in

the dark. No one wishes
this on you—save

perhaps you. Save
yourself from

yourself. I would walk
that far to meet you

in the middle
where odysseys are

just stories we read
before switching off the light.