New World Writing Quarterly

The dad pulled into the lot, low­ered his win­dow, cut the engine, and said, “Ta-dum!” But the fusion taco truck stood emp­ty and shut­tered. A paper note flapped on the pull­down win­dow gate: Closed! Medical Emergency!

His –more

Written from Row 14, Seat B 

I feel sor­ry for the flight atten­dants, how dutifully
they try to pre­pare us for dis­as­ter by point­ing here,
and here, and pulling on the loose end of the strap
like so. They say the near­est exit may be behind us

–more

I get us a booth at Gracie’s Diner. Fourth one from the back. Our favorite, mine and Lootie’s. It’s ten o’clock on a Wednesday, one of those weath­er­less days, not too cloudy, not too hot. Not too crowd­ed at this time –more

The faint­ing couch had start­ed watch­ing me.

Pink velour. Victorian. Curved like it expect­ed telegrams to arrive with bad news. I bought it dur­ing a phase when fur­ni­ture felt like progress.

Lately it had tak­en on the air of some­thing –more

In October, I found out what I found out. Now it was the Fourth of July, some nine months lat­er. I was in Baltimore to vis­it Mom in assist­ed care because I’d elect­ed not to speak to her about it on Thanksgiving and spoil –more

#9 Dream

I was in Manhattan, on the #9 train. At the sta­tion, a large crowd had been backed onto the plat­form due to a dis­tur­bance ahead. I noticed what appeared to be a lane of clear space and fol­lowed. –more

Redemption

It kills me to throw them out,
I say to my mother
who’s been dead for 35 years.
I’ve been dead for 35 years, she says,
you think I care what you do with them?
You always said I don’t –more

53^rd Birthday

Starting to think it’s too late
for my mid-life crisis—
too poor to buy a sports car,
adverse to wounds for an earring.
I spend time
with my first drug, television,
watch­ing –more

The psy­chic is every­where. The gro­cery store. The cor­ner store. The library. In a sub­ma­rine. The rest­ing home. The restau­rant. Outside the vil­lage phar­ma­cy as an extra in a movie. –more

Body Surfing, Spring Break, 1973 

turned into body slamming
in the dark waves’ sud­den shift,
our young invin­ci­ble swim trunks
near­ly yanked off in the sandy swirl,
and if you knew me then, you’d –more

A Poem in a Magazine

When I was young I read a poem
in a mag­a­zine in which the poet wakes up
in the morn­ing, walks to the kitchen,
& waits a moment before flicking
on the light “to let the roach­es scatter”
& –more

The Pretenders

The book land­ed some­where between bad and unbear­able. I sus­pect­ed it from the start, but kept read­ing any­way. Maybe to beat back bore­dom. Maybe to look lit­er­ary. Probably a lit­tle of both. But after two chap­ters, –more

There was out­right pan­ic when chil­dren began cough­ing up tiny chick­ens. On play­grounds from Ankara to Accra, Uppsala to Utica, chil­dren paused what they were doing, opened their mouths and coughed out minia­ture plumed Brabanters, –more

Timber

We grew tired of stand­ing with no one reclin­ing in our shade, climb­ing our trunks, or hang­ing swings or bird­hous­es from our limbs. What were we even here for? There was no sol­id line of us bor­der­ing a park, no clus­ter –more

Bush Baby

The man, fresh from the show­er, is cas­ti­gat­ing the bush baby for ingest­ing yet again a large por­tion of the foot cream.

He is upset not only because the oint­ment tube is now almost emp­ty, but also because the bush –more

The Subterfuge

To dis­guise the fact that she is car­ry­ing the plans for the assas­si­na­tion of our town coun­cil, she decides to cross the open space between con­spir­a­cy sites wear­ing her biki­ni.  Not just any biki­ni.  The one –more

Re: Helicopter

I’ve been sum­mar­i­ly informed that because I am not at an appro­pri­ate lev­el in this orga­ni­za­tion, I do not mer­it a heli­copter in my office. Helicopter notwith­stand­ing, I have always com­port­ed –more

Peeling

Mike Hutka, when he was home from sell­ing on the road, nev­er seemed to leave his house and yard. The car stayed in the dri­ve­way day and night. “He has some sense about him­self, at least,” my moth­er said, “not –more