Poetry
Spring 1989
Sanctity
Everything, he said, is sacred. I never knew when he was serious— the poses, the rhetoric—he lectured his son, me, on backbone—as though he were flashing his prick. (My suitors […]
Poetry
Spring 1989
Makers
He runs calloused hands over the flanks of a ship, a horse, a bitch, his son’s cheek, a rock— face, plucks the blade of his knife (the one his father […]