Flash Memoir

“Anonymity is priceless.”
—Jay Farrar, Falling Cars and Junkyard Dogs

At the half
century mark, debris stops

falling long
enough for her

to see stars. Suddenly
she believes

in the power of the speed
of light to guide her

to a place
that needs

no name. Familiar
faces remain

intact. And another
song becomes

a homecoming

she didn’t realize
she was
craving in her sleep.

Another Lyric Skyway

A real concert
harpist plays beneath
a giant atrium
sculpture with strings

attached. I’ve lived
all these years
with a mannequin—
not a marionette. I have

a cousin who mistakes live
women for the ones without
strings. Someone’s father
worked in a plastics factory

where they manufacture
the ones frozen
in poses. I can’t
draw one—but I could place

a cutout replica
in a jar and wait
to be surprised.


Stories readying to be
created from a dollhouse’s freshly painted walls. I slept
in that beautiful, long-legged woman’s house
in Georgia in another life. A man who walks
with arms behind his back scares me
with silent questions. Why? When? Where?
Really just why. I don’t want
to wake from this dream to find no dollhouse
with secret cellar door
leading to where it all happened
in another underground. Lyric or narrative
dreamer—who can remember well enough to tell.

Not a Thief/A Thief

A tiny stuffed brown
bear in the snow
in the city, she rescues it

even inanimate ones need
shelter. Or, because
she can’t erase the concrete
image of careless 

disregard, active
rejection.  She wants to build
a story from repurposed pieces
of lives she’ll never know. 

She’s willing
to make it up.
She accepts her shortcomings
with plot, character, 

continuity, a driving force.
She believes the tiny blue
eyes and red inverted umbrella
mouth stitched in 

will be enough
of a lyric to loop 

into a rhythm of how things
get dropped, picked up, and
passed along—or pocketed
for later use.