Cones and yellow tape and spindles of chicken wire; stone-stack lines across a Northeast forest; stockade and picket plastic shaped to look like lattice; barrels and sandbags; minefields and doorbells;…
After years, love boils to its essence – fetching your lost objects. The phone. Glasses. Car keys. The boy. A half-full Starbucks cup set somewhere in this house, but really…
Outside, the one-eyed ginger cat brawls with a stray, and the football pitch is pockmarked with crows. The blackberries are pulsing towards autumn, ink-drunk bulbs of juice growing fat. The…
One morning last week frost licked the trees to their edges. On the window, more marks, half- written. The morning before, the car couldn’t rectify anything we said to each…
-from Neil Young’s “My My, Hey Hey (Out Of The Blue)” The kids were killing themselves that summer. Parents were pointing every direction but inwards. The ceiling, I remember, was…
Header photograph © Karyna Aslanova.
Sand gritted against our teeth, my host family and I build a summer memory, a castle too close to the tide. Our faces stung by Norwegian blue skies, translating forfriskende…
I’m regularly being interrupted – called to the phone, sent out on a diaper run, shot with water from a garden hose, accosted by street people. It’s been that way…
Header photograph © Christine Owens.
the oceans love language is gift giving which means every time you swim to shore alive, is a present every time you are more survived than the previous version of…
be·long /bəˈlôNG/ Verb *** (Best viewed zoomed in landscape mode on mobile devices.) Header photograph © Adam Levon Brown.
Not dormancy, but sleep’s precursor: sheaves of shutting down. Rust in the crankshaft, dust in the fields, a languor in the clouds. The leaves are listless in the eaves; the…
I picked up a shell on the beach it held the ocean when he turned to me at night I heard the same wave crashing in his ear…
He has shot at cats that covet oblivious blue jays, at blue jays ripping wasps’ nests and eating queens, at beavers building dams with beeches and maples. He has shot…
Day spills into evening, sun over a narrow bay, white sand, slap-dance waves. It’s trash in the gravel I notice. Flattened soda cans glisten outside the guest house. My eyes…
