No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
In just his boxers, he sat straddle over the plexiglass wall. Paul carefully steadied himself to bring his leg round and face the water. As he edged off he counted down numbers twice and then made the drop.
Underneath, it was deadly quiet except a faint hum, likely the pool’s heater. Paul wanted to go right down and feel the bottom. It was unpleasant when he didn’t.
I imagine I am laid out On a table. Like a banquet. Very pretty. Wearing a flowing dress. Spread beneath my inert body Waves of gauzy, ref filmy cloth tease pale skin...
First, do anything but be alone. Date lots of people you will remember by comparing them to various vegetables you have seen in the produce section in the grocery store.
...I can’t help but notice the stark detail in all of their work. It is so real that it hits you in the face. It makes me think that in one way or another, it must have been real to them too.
release me from page & ink. from story.
from the value of fragility found in silence
& the blush of petals against sky. & within
the release i find it. the brilliant. the just. me.
“Well you got a mighty fine memory, donchya?” Leland said. “All them Hargroves live down this way.” Sophie recognized the name as soon as he said it, the Hargroves, whom she knew as the main black family of Azalea.
Bessy Hargrove was her grandmother’s best friend, and the last time Sophie was in Azalea they attended her ninety-eighth birthday party in the Azalea Baptist Church. They had been the only white people there, occupying one table in the back near the buffet tables, yet Sophie distinctly remembered they were ordered to take their food first.