Water Weavers

It feels strange, to wake up in a world without them.  A sudden stark realization that they are, simply put, no longer there. And yet, we transition.  This is the work of the mourners—to ease themselves back into life.  The men continue on, their emotions dragging them so deeply that they touch the bottom.  The …

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Hide and Seek

Like water, the brothers uncles cousins now slip through my fingers.  And where they fall is someplace dark. I cannot quite see to the bottom of them.  I try to peer through all of their existence at my feet, to grasp at understanding, but my gazing comes up dry.  To really understand them, the dead …

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Unbreak the Son: a poem

I feel it there, between my heart and ribs, Along that thin strip of flesh. A crack upon the sternum Words And how they rest there in the shallow scoop of skin A clavicle. Words and how they rest there Fingers how they hover on an iliac Scapulae and how the feathers bleed when they …

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The Graveyard

Sometimes, I imagine what it must be like to be buried underground. When I miss my cousin terribly, I think about rolling back the grave grass like a carpet.  Like a blanket, or a sheet.  I could unbury him, and watch the ground unfurl. When I was little, I was captured by the story of …

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A Rendering…

Render.  What is this body I have made? How strange, this physicality of self.  The things I have become, and all of those I haven’t. Sometimes, when my eyes are not quite working right, I look like someone else inside the mirror.  Unfamiliar.  Foreign.  I wonder if my mother would still know me—but, of course, …

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Creative Writing Friends…send me your work.

The Northridge Review is shifting to an online literary magazine.  We are accepting work from writers across all genres, fields, what have you.  I'm the Prose Editor for the Spring Edition, and I'd love to see your stuff.  Send me your weird, eclectic, unconventional writings.  Make my skin crawl.  Give me nightmares.  Or, just tell …

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