BUY Spring 2015, Vol. 30 No. 1
It was the hour of the affair.
I looked down from the roof of our attic apartment to the narrow stone alleys of Barcelona.
Paris,1939. The film stars Maurice Chevalier and Marie Deá, but I only know it through a two-minute clip.
By afternoon the black powder smoke had crackled and stung the air and idle gunfighters wandered the Front Street replica, a façade of clapboards pasted to the buildings behind them like Halloween masks.
This is the pose: Right leg extends behind you, knee pressed into mat, sole of foot up-turned, exposed to the world.
The problem is, everything is tied together, all of it. Langford dead, Lopez in pieces, and Miller a walking corpse, except no one knew it then. All because of the fight my dad had with my mom, the on
What I have / in this tight mouth / are two sentences / I drank from the river. / My name is Jane. / Once, my father taught / me how to swim. I was emptied into his oval / tub. Momma’s lipstick
When we children have nestled against / one another and the moon's light makes / the sand-bar we're on seem as if it will pull away / and float downriver with all of us aboard, /
The field where I was raped was once / a sacred pool. Crows ate holy raspberries, / which Lily planted and cared for, / a river nymph with long blue hair. / I could speak to the earth after
Likely we’ll never nunchuck our way out of trouble / in drug lord’s warehouse on steamy, far-flung / capital’s outskirts, Asia, maybe, or South America, / then flee through brazen pluck and stunning