Tag Archives: girl

Peter Pan’s Jesus Complex

Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn, novel-in-progress.    I remember the time, Anya, when my mother asked about you and me. I was thirteen. My mother’s sickness was in its early stages. She had already turned the couch in the livingroom … Continue reading

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Kissing Anya

Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn, novel-in-progress.      I was hanging out in the schoolyard, by myself, throwing a Spalding against the wall. It was something I did to relax.    Anya breezed into the schoolyard. She was carrying a … Continue reading

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Double Exposure

   I tucked my hand into Anya’s armpit and guided her into the bathroom. I closed the door behind us.    Anya immediately dropped to her knees and began puking into the toilet. A lot of it splashed onto the … Continue reading

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Unreachable You

It’s tough to always be in love with a ghost. Also it’s easy. The living don’t stand a chance against ghosts. In loving ghosts there are no real complications, no real disappointments, no real anything. There’s lots of teething on … Continue reading

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Dam

  She swallows stones, or is made to—what feels like a martyred plunge of boulders. I am, by proxy, crushed. Is this what is meant by god-dam? The circulatory flush of light to dark dammed, and no god gets in … Continue reading

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Pigtails

   There was that day you wore your hair in pigtails.    You were thirteen. Pigtails and a pale blue summer dress. I think the dress was new.    My mother had died three days earlier.    You and I … Continue reading

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Kissing

She told me, and I quote: “As a pagan-gnostic-pop-mystic, my religion is kissing– the ground, stones, twigs, children’s nubby fingers, hems of clothing, mouths.” To prove her word devout, she kissed me on the lips, then deeper, and I received … Continue reading

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Hale

Hymn, inside Her, by which lovers pass hale music, and fire, through a needle’s hallowed eye.

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Net

Naked, net value of a girl’s dreamless longing– Musing upon loss.

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Braid

Drizzle of clear beads, perfect climate for daybreak– Silence braids our grief.

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