No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I’m looking for him. Even among the crowds he was taller than almost everyone else. I would look for his smile, his encouragement. But today I won’t see him. I won’t hear him scream “Run, Anna, run!” while he waves his arms above the rest of the crowd so that I can’t miss him.
Rita Zumpano was the topic of neighborhood gossip, a widow who’d gotten over the death of her husband a decade ago, a woman who lit no candles at church, who favored floral patterns over black, who took tango lessons at the community center.
My aim ten years ago was an arrow
that sparked in my hand.
Jacee worked at the Waffle House on I-95 in Haswick, Georgia going on five years. She’d started the day after graduating high school when her mother told her to get a job or “move on.”
In a recent interview in the Spanish press, Maysaloun Hamoud sighs with exasperation – “Why would anybody think the characters, who are out partying and having a good time, are trying to escape -just because they drink and take drugs”. She protests. “The protagonists are young, that’s life, life in Tel Aviv.”
you follow a trace of footprints smudged ash-green, but they disappear