issue 3
My dad was an inveterate theatergoer in the old country where theatre reigned supreme before the Soviets, under the Soviets, after the Soviets.
I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped
On the first day of our new life together, my husband realized that I was not interested in theoretical debate. He said it was okay by him and went out to get some pancake mix.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote
I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.
No matter how you try to ignore it, you look like him. You look like your father.
Vistas from the American Southwest, catching the light and design in all its strangeness and beauty.