Hazelwood Joe was a poor, milky substitute
for my father, with his failed strongman routine
and button-down muscle shirts that impressed
no one but my mother, by then orbiting
somewhere near Saturn, intrigued by the rings
and hoping to catch a little stardust.
He sought work as diligently as a dog worrying
a bone until, one day, he simply didn’t, and he
started farming flies by the kitchen windowsill.
All the while, I banged on the door of my future,
played warped jazz records, and watched the rain fall
over the town where dreams curled up like dead spiders.
# # #
Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he teaches and keeps strange hours and stranger company. He writes poetry as often as he can.
Joy Mahar is an emergent writer living on the outskirts of Detroit. Her work has…
They received a much needed shower this morning: bare branches of trees, Fall's fallen crushed leaves,…
“Persephone is having sex in hell.” –“Persephone the Wanderer,” Louise Glück This isn’t hell, but…
“Again.” “Again.” “Again.” “Once more.” Her son slid down the wall onto the hallway floor.…
He told my Ma I was too young to know what a tumor felt like.…
“Don’t leave the backyard, Jodi!” “Okay, Mommy, I won’t!” That last conversation echoed in Sarah’s…
This website uses cookies.