February 2011
20 posts
January 2011
7 posts
"Friends," Laure-Anne Bosselaar
This is the viscous heart I hide from you: gnashing, polluted, hooked to my ribs like a burr, stuck there and stinging, and it’s only four fourteen in the morning. Those sudden shudders my waking alarm, then the daily discipline of shutting away that heart, shambling through the house, touching things, stroking their shapes as if it could help me not be the Bad Sower’s daughter each...
“Patience is a great friend to writers. You need to remind yourself that although...”
– Charles Baxter
"Still Life with Spurious Picturesque," Camille...
The thought insists upon itself. The dead body of it, what you have put together: The hillside won’t make sense. You run through the trees, but the trees lead nowhere. Didn’t the sky come down on you like. Didn’t you think you saw. The irrational forest, your stupid mouth, a breath stillborn. Define: Lake. Ink stain. The cold, cold water. The heart’s slow beat. ...