Sipping floats at an A&W in Marion, Indiana with a son I hadn’t seen in a decade, my top incisors were stuck in another man’s foot, I presumed being extracted at the local ER.
The smell of bread told me the new bakery had finally opened, and I followed it and then, much more slowly, the long line of other gluten-tolerant people to the counter.
“Pol-ka,” Tom breathes, and his fingers move. Janet leans over him. He lies, arms open, tubes in his nostrils and the back of one hand, a man being played by machines.
You stand naked in front of the mirror and see her image in your reflection. Long hair. Dark skin stretched over your hips.
When Tiffany was an hour old her father carried her to the top of the highest hill on his land.
“Stop biting me,” I said—scratching a new welt on my neck. She must have bitten me again while I was napping on the couch.
I tell you I’ve only ever shown it to a girl who I met on a tour bus in Moscow, where I was traveling with my parents. She had bad acne, and she really liked Duran Duran.
Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks
In the barren cold camp, you wear a dusty cape and top hat, wave my cane as if it were a wand and tell me your dream-stories, one after the next, your words spun and tossed like tethers into the air.
The old man fell asleep in his car, his nostrils pressed softly against the steering wheel, but the car kept going, because the old man’s foot was not asleep, was still pressing down hard, and later they would say, it’s not really his fault, he’s such an old man.