three poems

third eye

At night, an infant, I’d crawl 
downstairs to perform casual 
acts of violence, the radio, 
phonograph, and TV particular 
targets of my ire. To retaliate, 
my father at bedtime affixed 
chicken wire atop my crib.

Those were innocent if benighted times. 
Pregnant mothers smoked, car seats weren’t 
invented yet, no one childproofed their home.

When five years old, caught between gangs of 
rock-throwing boys, my head got split open. 
My parents rushed me bleeding and screaming 
to the emergency room. Decades later I still bear
a crescent-moon scar like an incipient third eye.

Today, on TV, again terrible news. I switch it 
off and sit in darkness while a drone hovers 
outside my window. Observing me, it buzzes,
squeaks, butts against the glass. 

The world is never safe. In the bathroom mirror, 
I touch my scar willing that eye to open.

flash fiction

news of sputnik

The world’s first satellite has just been launched, and my brother, tuned in last night to the shortwave radio he and my father built, shakes me awake at dawn.

“Weather conditions for a perfect launch are now.”

I dress quickly and hurry downstairs where we grab our new diamond Hi-Flier from the hall closet.

The neighborhood’s quiet, a few stars still out. Our kite rises and aims toward the treetops at the end of the block. Jerking the bobbin in one hand, he reaches into his jeans pocket with the other.

“Here’s a quarter. Go to Pressman’s and buy more string.”

My brother Jerry’s fourteen and I’m seven. Pressman’s is the corner grocery/variety store. The kite flutters and dives toward the treetops; my brother yanks the string and it reels upwards again.

“Go!” he yells.

two poems

black egret

The trapper follows the creek,
wet boots ringing with each step,
the sky like an iridium clock.
All traps are empty save one,
the weir-net strung like jewelry
across the creek’s neck before it
plunges toward the falls.

The trap glints, bulges, a large
black egret entangled within.
The trapper kneels, slowly
extricates the creature, which
nips at his hands, drawing blood.
He carries it then drooping
in his arms back home.

Night has fallen, his wife and
children already in bed. Gruel
for dinner, a bowl saved for him.
Later, lying beside his wife, he
hears the egret’s cry from the shed
where he’s confined it, wing
broken but on the mend.

His wife also hears and kisses her
husband, and draws him nearer
her breast. Toward dawn, careful
not to wake her, he goes to the
shed. The egret, quiet, stirs,
lifts its long neck, catches his
eye. It will live, he thinks, then
shuts the door.

flash fiction

in the city of k.

I had never been to the city of K. before, having just flown in on business the other night, and so imagine my surprise at seeing my parents, waiting at a bus stop just a few blocks from my hotel.

They looked older and frailer than the last time we had met. They huddled against each other on the bench, their clothes too thin for the cold climate. 

After we kissed I said, "Mom, dad, you can't possibly be here on vacation."

"Of course we'd never leave Florida ordinarily," my mother said through clattering teeth. "But your brother is in town on a stopover—you know how little we see of him!—and he bought us plane tickets so we could meet."

Another coincidence! But I felt slighted and angry that he hadn't also told me about his plans. My father, guessing what I was thinking, said, "Look, son, how could your brother possibly know you also would be in the city of K.?"

"Can't you join us for dinner?" my mother said.

flash fiction

this is not a ghost story

The last rescue chopper clambered upward, mud and wet sand skidding in its wake. It aimed for the mountain, half of which had slid into the sea and buried a mile of highway. 

We held hands and sang around a bonfire. I’d come with Natalie but when the music ended the woman standing beside me wasn’t my wife. 

Her name was Wendy, and she wore a bridesmaid’s pink balloon-sleeve dress. It trailed in the sand as we passed a listing wedding canopy and rows of empty folding chairs. We entered a restaurant cafe still strung with streamers and paper lanterns.