'I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking...someday all of this will have to be developed, printed, carefully fixed'
If you squinted and sloshed the rectangular flask just a little, a light, slimy scuzz stuck to the bottom. The liquid was filmy, opaque and pinkish. My labmate was groaning softly, staring into the tiny universe held daintily between her gloved thumb and forefinger. I think they re dead, she said. The line for the microscope Continue reading 62. Chinese hamster ovary cells
The car was too full. We’d already snagged a ’70s side table with a magnetic front and nifty particle board construction. We wedged a rocking chair behind it, a dresser behind that, a couple of woven baskets, a small pile of books. “It’ll fit,” he said, grunting as he shifted the chair here, wedged a Continue reading 61. creaky rocking chairs
I’ve been thinking a lot about burning things. Wait: let me rephrase. I haven’t been thinking about burning as a verb—I do not want to go out and do the burning. It’s the things that are already burning that I m thinking about. It’s the forest fires raging across the state of Oregon that are softly Continue reading 60. combustion
I woke up with my hair in a frizzy rat s nest this morning, which is impressive, given its pin-straight nature. A scrunchie had worked its way off my damp ponytail sometime last night and balled up in a knot somewhere under my right shoulder blade. The princess and the pea, with far fewer mattresses and Continue reading 59. fog
What does an insomniac writer buy at the grocery store at 3:36 in the morning? Coffee, a new notepad, a pack of pencils, the pragmatic bottle of dish soap. What does she do when she gets back home, wherever that may be? Pour herself a rum and coke, or maybe three. And what does the Continue reading 58. insomniac
I met you in late summer, when the sun shone hot and bright and scalding from the center of the sky, and we squinted our eyes on the walk to your car or mine. I met you in late summer, before the wind started to chill, and the nights brought whispers of winter but no Continue reading 57. stolen seasons
Sometimes you stop kissing me To catch your breath, And you run your nose back and forth Across mine. Your arms circle tighter (I sink deeper into your chest): I think, For once, Time is endless.
I m an ink-stain walking, Words on a page run together in the rain. I m a spiral notebook with lines Printed lopsided and too far apart. I m a kickstand on an old three-speed Bicycle push me, and I ll hold you up. I m a box of mothballed news pages with Headlines inflammatory and demure, A hidden Continue reading 55. centrifugal force
The coffee in the pot this morning is No better than sludge. The beans we bought are rotten, Bitter, black as night and half As refreshing. The house is chilled, cool air moves Through my hair as I walk, a Whistle in a storm. Even in the confines of my kitchen Floodgates opened, a dam Continue reading 54. whistle in a storm
The shelter you created in the crook of your arm Where your chest and shoulder meet (Like the merging of two rivers) Swept me up. In anguish and ecstasy my forehead Reseted snug against your Collarbone while the bass glug of blood Through the mire of your heart Made rhythmic my tumbling Thoughts. Soothed, for Continue reading 53. for the road