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April 10, 2024
I do not like old water.

The water in the ocean is old

The lake is old

But maybe it’s not

Subject to the logic of time, of old and new.

Water.
April 3, 2024
To my beloved sense of security, it’s your perimeter
that draws its corners like a belt when it comes down
to eating frozen foods out of the ground, each unenvelopment a finer slice of skin, hooped up inside     a shuffle to which turns quicken around the other way, like Artaud said about dead bolts, skull-clangor, that rings out.
March 27, 2024
On my day off, I drove my aging father to his death in the quaint town he had frequented after the navy when he was bouncing between jobs. On the phone, two nights before the fated trip, was the first I had heard him speak of this place. Though I believed him, doubts soon set in, and I wondered whether his claim was a phantom of his condition.
March 20, 2024
Christmas Night lies bitter cold and silent over the capital, and all life seems frozen. Even the wind is still, and the stars flicker like minuscule fires that strive to keep life going. 
March 13, 2024
Ariadne struck the mast

Enraged. She     couldn’t sail, no

One had ever bothered to


Teach her, but the ship wouldn’t

Be still.     She had awoken

To find Thesus dead, his crew


Dead,     and at first she had felt

Relief.     
March 6, 2024
The purged caribou heart. First arctic 
meal prepared raw, before fire. Before fires

purpled meat, meat was ulued off to serve
an open mouth. First heart’s crevasses

stretched like caribou cut raw. Protoheart
raw in search of fire, red windburn revealed
February 28, 2024
I saw it in this very particular slide of swell’s,
the sylphspun silk of the sylph, she sideways,
her garage is paradise in masque, her sweep
is saturn, szturn im sturm & string, install’d
February 28, 2024
For breakfast, lunch, and dinner. On slices of rubbery white bread buttered with margarine so that the marmalade slides under the spreading knife. In the glass jar, the orange jelly with bright shavings of orange peel absorbs light and invites hungry eyes. And so, dreaming of marmalade, the brothers, always in need of sustenance, arrive on a snowy March morning at Heathrow.
February 21, 2024
Because in the kitchen, it’s difficult to lie

Because the yearbook photo shows long straight hair parted down the middle, Marcia Brady-
  style

Because in my son’s mind, he has only one dziadek & babcia & that blindspot diminishes me
  more each day
February 14, 2024
The earliest, from my brother (June 2007) was twelve seconds long: “Hi, it’s me—aww, fucking-A!—Hi, it’s me, call later, I guess.”

Then the first day of August 2007, twenty seconds: “Hi Amanda, this is Ollie, I just saw the news a bridge fell down in Minneapolis—I hope you weren’t on it. I guess that’s why I’m calling. I’ll try you later. Okay, love you, bye.” I was working at the café when I missed the call.
February 7, 2024
The road where I lived went in a circle.
Inside the road circle was a circle of grass.
Inside the circle of grass was the matter I looked through
And looked at, waiting for whatever moved in from the edges
And came together in the middle of the circle.
 
January 31, 2024
heirloom hairline sugar
lips what’s up gas lit
you’re holding the match
dirty mattress book rhythms
January 24, 2024
No one could remember when the hole appeared. Some thought it had opened overnight—spontaneously, like a weather event or an idea—while everyone was sleeping. Others claimed the hole had always been there, but small and shallow enough that no one noticed it. Only as it widened and deepened over time had it taken shape in the village consciousness. Whatever the case, since the hole emerged at the center of town, where everyone went and everything happened, it became impossible to ignore.
 
January 17, 2024
Not in a place considered a place. Farther out. On the road nowhere. Where a place had been. There was a smokestack. Not a place on the map. To get there, keep going. Kept going and missed it. Missed it but kept going. There was a water tower not considered a water tower. In a place once considered a place.
 
January 10, 2024
Truth is asphalt—you, too,
should wait for it to cool,
as slabs of it can and do
get personalityish.
 
The acclaimed, genre-spanning writer reads from her work.
Monday, April 22, 2024
4:00 pm – 5:00 pm EDT/GMT-4
Campus Center, Weis Cinema