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Umbrella

Banana Hymn

You were ready to don the handcuffs, leg chains, and orange, ill-fitting jumpsuit required of all prisoners in transit. But you didn’t really want to go to your dad’s funeral. That’s what you’d told the man a few weeks before his bone cancer finally killed him.

If We’re Lucky

“Prophet?”No one had called me that in a while. Before I turned around, before I looked for his face in the mirror behind the bar, I knew, I felt who it was.

Locked Doors

Chopping a door into slivers; sitting two seats back, one row over to his right; being swept up by an undertow

The Great Army

When I was a child I used to beg the Old Buddhist to tell this story over and over again, especially the descriptions of the soldiers.

On The Question Of Redemption

Rituals

Every night Lynn cooks onions for supper: liver and onions, onion soup, onion rings, hot sausage grinders. Every night, amidst the smell of onions, Jerry removes pieces of the kitchen’s blue-flowered wallpaper, exposing patches of green paint and gray paste.

Selected Poems

Storms

A classmate remembered, a card playing grandmother, a Hurricane Andrew survivor

Letter To Maxim

The story of you is starting in me again. When I think of you, I see a road, a long gray stretch of lonely two-lane highway, a yellow stripe painted down its middle, a road in the middle of nowhere.