Candy. Love. Kiss. Hug.
“It wasn’t the armadillo’s fault. Just a case of wrong place, wrong, well, you know,” she said. “We had to do it though. The way it just wandered in. Besides, we hadn’t eaten in days. We live like this sometimes. Why do you think the coyotes stopped eating all the dogs in the subdivision? Why do you think the cats can prowl the backyards in peace once again? Why do you think the deer have stopped stalking your petunias? We keep watch. You might not think it, living here, but it isn’t always easy getting to the supermarket. So, well, we just keep watch.”
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We couldn’t do it otherwise. Silent through doors, in chairs, legs of and cushions. Press the meat to dried lips, red on red, and wrinkled love. Frozen knots of light flicker through plastic. And once we walked in green and fallen brush and spring. We lurk and trample. Leave scars. Creep slowly across the wall. Imagine we know something of […]
The pitted date unfolds like a broken cicada skin. Whirring and helpless memories of old houses stunt the burn of lemon juice finding the cracks in my skin; traveling through canals of age. I’ve been here for thirteen years. I’ll be here for thirteen more. Cilantro stems like spindly locust legs unfurl over parsley and pistachio; cling to smooth Pyrex. Food fills a space once lushly loved yet now untouched. In the bowl, it seems, the insects emerge winged and intoxicated; dripping lemon and sherry; glistening oil; sustaining pristine cithara string notes. Ache is all there can be no matter what the species. We sing these songs so long that we die and never notice.