The Upstairs Window
I am the dim lightin the upstairs roombehind the curtain. I am not the shadowpassed before it,nor the shadethat funnels it down. No — I am the lurethat tempts a…
Poetry by Devon Brock
I am the dim lightin the upstairs roombehind the curtain. I am not the shadowpassed before it,nor the shadethat funnels it down. No — I am the lurethat tempts a…
A note,scribbled in deliriumtells more than a pottered trope. So, here, in a moment of tyranny,I will say, and with all fervententropy, that I am dying. I cannot take your…
You found a pinky in the woodpile,underneath some wet leaves.You brought it back to the house,hairless and blind, shivering.Satch said it wouldn’t survive an hour,without its mom, without its nest,but…
I will tell you what I saw,when my eyes first opened. I will tell you how,in the first recollection,all things come to be: I was three years old,sitting on the…
Venus,the vivacious fool,giddy with the huntchased the sunlike a loose balloonover the treetops,over the long bare rise,the string,just out of reach. And in the east,brazen with a honed moonrisen, Saturn,…
This is a chair.It is oak, and the joints are loose —they pop. But the stain is pristine. And this is a chair:snow and cherry,they fall — these blossoms. And…
Nobody cried for Monday,turned thirteen, born badThey saydragged up by the hairby the neck They sayshove it in our faces They saywag it like villain like mangelike toxinspat clean outta…
A proper stir fry demandsten thousand precise cuts. And yet,I‘ve never been shownhow to oil a stone. I’ve never stood, scallionon a stool, trancedand low angled on novaculite, as a…