No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
We were standing in the backyard of our grandmother’s house on Canal Street, in New Orleans. The air was thick and vines hung from the trees. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt. His hair was greased just so. Eddie thrust his fist out toward an imaginary cheek. “Rotate your fist when you hit the other guy’s face,” he said.
Wear your years with a flourish of garb.
Janine has fled, holding her arm. He’d leaned against the window to part the threadbare curtains and watched her go.
I am an unborn fox child
I’ve tried to imitate animals my whole life. On gloomy days I’m as lazy as a cat and after long days of work I stretch out over the cold kitchen floor like an old dog.
Did I say that correctly?” He looked to his daughter for confirmation.
“Yes, dad,” she said, winking at Xavier. “The crazy book, remember?”