[In every life, a moment or two, for heaven’s sake]
In every life, a moment or two, for goodness sake. “Pregnant jade rabbit enters purple heaven.”
Bellingham Review Archives
In every life, a moment or two, for goodness sake. “Pregnant jade rabbit enters purple heaven.”
“Every word,” wrote Beckett, “is like an unnecessary stain on silence & nothingness.” He doubled down on this
In last night’s dream, I collected my dead mother in my arms. Sky overhead, where whole weather systems bruised & healed, bruised & healed. A
Seagulls of Cardiff, small gods of the unravel,
trash-blusterers, street screechers, chimney-pot clouds
sweeping yourselves away to sky
About attribution, they were apparently
often wrong, the art curators, so they’ve made a game
called Find the Real Bosch: ten fantastical canvases
grouped on a wall: the strange and ordinary equally
For example: breath. For example: a father.
Or dawn chewing up fireflies, raking the stars
down to campfire ash. The child you’ll spend longer
grieving than raising, the sea’s
I know the hinges give me away. To be this open
requires doors. Night-sealed, dead bolted, rusted,
shedding blood-colored dust. Roughly the size of
Not far from the cabin where you were born,
where you first learned to reach
with your soles, no bigger than wood frogs,
and feel the lining
Here the crows are old snow
with black feet. The Americans watch
from their cottage
as the beaks puzzle
I surface aspirate-blue, the mother-of-pearl edging on a button blanket, cedar strips steamed then bound, a bentwood box cupping tidal foods: