Wingdings

I don’t know whyWe so often describe our lives with fire.We light the match, we play with flames,Get burned, become burned out.I remember going to two storesTo find the right light bulbs.My dad bought them for me,The ones that replicate…

His pulp, his tender center, is not the pulsing mass that sits within his chest. No wonder ribs are called a “cage” –

In the novelty museum, a woman and her son browse
instruments of torture.