Tell Me About the Weather
What do they mean when they say it’s about the living? They mean a torn aorta and nobody to mend it will lose you a seat at the table of concerns; they mean when you trade the dead’s body for its worth in absence, you can refuse the bulk of it — “I’m afraid that weighs too much,” is something you could say. I told my husband I wanted to take all of it.
Behind That Wall Is the Sea
Behind that wall is the sea, trust me. Fishermen, swimmers, and any other old lover of the beach would rest their backs against the wall, smell the air of the other side through long, languorous breaths and listen to the waves, picturing the transformed color of their feet when they would first walk into the water, until, one day, all evidence of the sea vanished.
On the way to the bookstore, missteps
On the way to the bookstore, I walk behind a man whose white denim jacket has tour dates embroidered on the back. Small, loopy letters in gold, orange, and black, long tails of thread dangling as he walks. I find myself wanting him inside me for hours while I go about doing other things, like browse the new fiction table, shop for groceries, withdraw money from the ATM.
Dogs of the City
Fixed outside tourist shops selling prayer wheels and mountain flights was a pack of boys in shirts shredding fast. Some days you saw them sprawled on the sidewalk, limbs tracing broken trajectories, eyes following specks of dust that might open to another universe. Other days you saw them trailing tourists for the day’s income. Their feet sputtered, their arms arced, their tongues swam through languages: German, Hebrew, Spanish, Russian, French. Their faith — collapsing now, surging then — rested on the first world’s guilt for the third world’s abandoned. Bonding the days together was Dendrite: a cheap adhesive you throw into a plastic bag and inhale. This they did between everything else.