“It’s just that I can feel my heart. I mean, I can always feel my heart. It’s in my ears, in my knees, in my shoulder blades. Not all at once, you know. It just — it moves? It’s in my palm, now.”
Carla’s coffee’s gone cold, so she dumps the final swig in the harbor. “You have a reservation for seven people, sir.” She taps her clipboard. “Says so right here.” Continue reading
Not in a week.
An hour ago.
I won’t again. I promise.
Ask those Black Sox
those ballplayers if Arnold Rothstein’s lips smacked of milk sweat
drunk on devil’s food when the fix was in.
Luciano in the upstairs lavatory, hamming it up in the abattoir,
turncoat henchmen boil down the bathtub in a hiss of lye
while Lucky sits
as if poolside by poppy plants. Continue reading
Concealed by a mosquito net,
We whisper frantic, fevered terms.
A look, a kiss, caress confirms —
The fragrant earth, so dark and wet —
It was a fat pause. A pregnant one — we all heard
it. Saw the caesura hanging there in the air,
a gaping emptiness she must have felt
as ice. Its eyes, wide open,
stared between the maws
of my mother’s open belly.