Under the knife blade, my mother’s broken hand in a sling, purple peel strips off over the face of the counter. Under the knife blade, my mother’s broken hand in a sling, purple peel strips off over the face of the counter. Her cheek, swollen, is marked by a bruise,...
He has eaten so much duck that he cannot talk to his wife the memory of the duck skin slips past his tongue to catch and clutch in his throat while a small bit of duck meat is stuck in the back molar of his closed mouth and the scent of Chinese spices and sweet fruit...
The winner of Room's 2002 poetry contest, judged by Joelene Heathcote. My friend wants to know what I think of when I panic. I pause in front of lit shop windows of long wrap-around scarves, beaded necklines and Indian silks. Absence, abandonment are the words but...
The second-place winner of our 2001 poetry contest. at Christmas I stare and stare at your daughters who look so eerily like you. your older girl seems all right, I know you’d be glad. she’s a regular kid, plays with ponies, laughs in shrieks. it’s only sometimes I...
The winner of our 2001 poetry contest. You are a woman who lusts after pink lilies, the open mouths of inlets blurred by mist. Nothing is ever simple. A man who says he loves his wife but runs his hands over you. You stamp and shiver, steam like a horse in rain. You...
She is waiting for the end of another beginning, woman, always changing: now the heat is in the core. She is waiting for the end of another beginning, woman, always changing: now the heat is in the core. She is saying goodbye to the moon’s pull, rhythm of tides;...