He slinks around in a navy-blue hoodie and sweatpants, black leather gloves pulled over his hands to hide several missing digits, my fault for not shaping five good fingers from
He floats in my dreams like debris from a Shreveport wreck, and in a last ditch effort to ban his jetsam from washing up on my shore and decomposing on
After listening to the opening riff of Hotel California, he moans in the passenger seat next to me, arghhhh! I suggest he take a chill pill. He groans again, but
We’ve had this talk before when I didn’t know who else would listen to me standing at the last bench of Leona Canyon—you know the one—dedicated to the Jalquin people circled by
The wholeness of self-lubricating antibodies inspired by knitting patterns cut and pasted into chromogenic prints looking like a goddess of that for which there is no god where blood of
Hear Lenore read “Yizkor.” White robes and prayer books automatically flip to the right page, and the cantor, voice of the synagogue, possessed by the spirit of the sanctuary, blesses us