Always Tender in the Wrong Places
Two bears and an owl walk into a bar—
the beginning of a joke, maybe,
or a dream.
Two bears and an owl walk into a bar—
the beginning of a joke, maybe,
or a dream.
The blued barrels of the shotguns stuck out over the hood of the station wagon, pointing away from the men who were smoking, the smoke rising in the breeze, drifting into the corn field. The corn stalks rustled in the breeze.
All I saw my mother drink
for years. In the diner, served
with a striped straw and shredded
paper beanie or sometimes
at Stop & Shop just before checkout,
its perfect plastic body pulled from
the squat fridge that sits underneath
the conveyor belt—but most often
sipped from a silver can on the porch.
“If you don’t believe in something, you’ll fall for anything.”
—Falsely attributed to Alexander Hamilton
All my life I’ve wanted to knit an aardvark
not this endless succession of zebras—
black and white wool seems sterile
and the stripes never come out lifelike.
Here’s the secret: nobody knows
what the moon is made of. Nobody
understands our bodies’ common cheese …