My quarterly post

Pluto's Lot

Sure, he'd been told about long-distance
relationships, how they never work, but still
he'd not realized how quiet the house
would seem. And she was always leaving
things behind, as if on purpose—a stocking
redolent with that scent, which he never could
pronounce; worse still, the Victoria's Secret
catalogue she'd forgotten to forward.
His friends would note her absence
at parties; he'd leave early and call,
hoping not to wake her mother,
begging her to talk sexy over the phone.

First Words

Her mouth the o at the center of wow,
Georgia leans with her hands on her knees.
With one finger pointing to where she will go,
the others grip air so you’ll follow and see.

All that passes from view is gone,
leaving her chanting, more airplane, more tree.
Ga-ga, she says, when she points in the mirror—
All gone, and then more, more Daddy, more me.

This is the way to meet the world:
arms thrown wide, saying, More, more.

Creepy little story

Awake

Sleepy-eyed, she sat up and mumbled, “I dreamed you killed someone and stuffed them in the closet.”

He lit another cigarette. “Amazing what some smack can do to ease your mind.”

She looked from the tight ring of bruises on her breast to the white sunshine out the high window. He was tapping the syringe.

“Somebody warned me,” he said, “how disposing of a body can ruin your whole routine. Damn Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

Far away, she heard sirens, and the dog beginning to howl in the backyard. Looking at the closet, she almost let a whimper escape from her throat.