Winter. Just winter. Snow softly falling, the muted sound of fat crystal flakes fixing themselves upon the earth, the trees, the frozen pond. Winter. Or not just winter. A cold sky clutching its secrets until they become too heavy to hold, sprinkling its mystery, an icy moonbeam, a wave of glimmer and bold.
Pleased as punch (sparkly and spiked) to announce that my essay, The Bad Wife, was recently published at PANK Magazine. A short excerpt: “The Husband lies prostrate on a gurney, his bladder drained by a jaundiced tube. A long, thin needle through which CO2 will surge is inserted into his belly button and his freshly shaved midsection soon inflates like molten glass to three times its ordinary mass. This is called insufflation of the peritoneal cavity. Black lines are drawn crisscross along the corporeal mass, preserving only a rectangular swath of skin bordering the umbilicus—an emerging grid plan that looks like Midtown Manhattan, Central Park at its core. The flesh below the Husband’s belly button is punctured several times with sharp-tipped hollow trocars that are drilled by hand through layers of epidermis and fat, like an auger through ice, carving out five clammy burrows…” Read more here at PANK.
Nature’s first green is gold / Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower / But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief / So dawn goes down today.
Nothing gold can stay.
~ Robert Frost
banks of noon 