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Youthexpand_moreOver salad, the Frenchman asked me about work and what I did.
“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have done it, but they had it coming.”
The dean’s voice was stuck in my head. Plagiarism. Expulsion.
Loved this little portal to my past so much that I went looking for others.
Tirelessly her arm rose and fell, till the child at last fell at her feet.
That autumn, my first in San Francisco, I ran short of money.
Sitting beside a heap of steaming dung I felt in great poetic form.
On that still, snowy day, Mick’s neck popped like a flaming log.
It’s all good,” Mila says, meaning, it’s so not, her voice glass-like.
I have three girls from my previous marriages, but she beats them all.
We backed up and I kept ripping it at his face, trying to knock his teeth out.
These are notes that please the great heart of man.
The blood had been soaked up in sawdust—“this is hell.”
I tell her I’m a woman now, that my boobs just popped in.
The sense of power that flights of temper evoke will betray you.
I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.
I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.
Your mother still glows with a smoothness that you envy.
Ron Carlson
Our visions of the world fade like the morning star, lost in the light of day.
I can’t hold a face held before dawn & not see behind the eyes bullets.
I hadn’t even tried. I was one of the few kids D.A.R.E. had worked on.
Of course he escaped. He would be the one. My legendary brother.
No fountains to quench the thirst between rounds of tag.
She is eight years old and doesn’t recognize the word divorce.
I saw it on her face that day, a look like her heart would drift into the sky.
Sometimes a story is like a beehive. Sometimes an idea is like a poem.
I thought fleetingly he might give it to me, as he knew I wanted it.
Stop her there, on the bank of knowingness, just before spring.
She must know she was a mistake, what they call now a surprise.
