the calf is being born! We trudge outside in pajamas and sweatshirts. Our cousin leads the way, swinging a lantern. We can see every star in the dark sky—hundreds of them. When we reach the barn, the heifer is on her feet, but not so happy about it. She gives a low moan, a grunt, then teeters and falls to the side, like a lopsided clown. We all gently push and pull repeatedly, in a rhythm,…

What is that? I say, sitting by the firepit, waiting for you to join me in the backyard. A shiver runs through my body as I watch a glowing orb, light fanning out like wings, glide across the clear night sky. I call for you and hear you mumble annoyances until you’re out the door, look up, and say, What the hell is that? We watch the sphere coast overhead, the stars in the background…

When Mrs. Anieke asks the class what we want to be when we grow up, Emmanuel says a doctor. Akin says a lawyer. Abigail wants to be a teacher like Mrs. Anieke. Tosin, a pilot, flying big planes that shrink into little bird sizes hiding behind clouds and blending with the vast blue. But I say, When I grow up, I want to turn back time. The class stares at me. I have gotten everyone…

Even the angels are exhausted by the day’s news. Their backs hurt. Their necks hurt. Doors keep closing. Windows, too. The air on earth makes them cough. Tonight, they spend hours at Urgent Care with a sick child, where a nurse looks right at them and says, You work here in laundry services?  In the basement? The angels hope for unremarkable test results and leave clutching a prescription jotted on a grocery receipt. They asked the name of the medication three times,…

At dawn the air itself felt rehearsed, a draft of something larger that had forgotten its revisions. The neighborhood was half-submerged in fog, soft as a held breath, and the stoplight on the corner blinked between red and nothing, unable to remember the sequence. I walked toward the river because that’s what mornings were for, or had been once—confirming the world’s persistence through small pilgrimages. The houses on my street leaned inward as if conferring;…

We sat on the booth’s tiny bench in awkward silence. You grabbed my hand and said, We don’t have to do this. You couldn’t see the goosebumps cropping on the nape of neck, or know the internal chill-shake from your touch, at first firm, urgent, then gentle as I withdrew my hand from the coin slot. I said, Let’s do this instead, as I put my head and back on the floorboard, watching you blush…

At Ahma’s funeral, I saw my birth mother for the first time. She stood at the edge of the crowd, with almond eyes and an oval face like mine. She stepped forward, lips trembling, voice like ash scattered by the wind. I just wanted to…I looked down at a crack in the floor tiles. She pressed a kraft paper packet in my hand. Her fingers were cold. Inside are my journals. And the letters. All these…

If God hi’self had declared a rematch between Cain and Abel, no larger would the crowds have been than this day’s prizefight. Drawn to it like a lodestone, a thousand souls elbowed for room near the ropes, hoping to taste salt or iron cast off from two brutes now locked in combat. I kept an eye on Kilrain and another on my pocket watch. A minute per round, and the fight scheduled to run eighty.…

The Devil’s heart is wrapped in foil in my freezer. How I came to have it isn’t all that interesting, but I’ll tell you anyway. The Devil appeared in my bedroom late one night and said he wanted to give me his heart. He said I’d be doing the world a favor because even the Devil can’t live without a heart. Then why would you offer it to me? I said. The Devil said he’d…

I’ve always loved our darkling yard and tonight I’m back, hogging the shadows in detective pose, scoping out your party. There you are, my mother the hostess. Arms aloft, draping ambience. You make your way toward the window and plant a string of lights across the curtain rail. Ten years since I laid the diagnosis at your feet, but no matter. ’Tis the season for sensory seduction, not reasonable adjustments. You flip switches and the…

I can make my shadow puppets do anything I want. Well, almost anything. I’m Philip D’Arc, master shadow-puppeteer of the Saskatoon Public Library, presently on a four-week work sabbatical in Berlin, Germany, studying the silhouette animation of Lotte Reiniger, a pioneer in the art. His work profoundly influenced German Expressionism, vide for instance the silent film Warning Shadows. But its applications to my own art seem endless. After only a week here, and several lectures…

Gandhi sits on the floor of his room, craving that contact with the ground. He watches the soul of India, wounded, divided, probably irreparable. Yet the air sizzles with euphoria, two hundred years of fighting the British Raj, and in two hours, there will be freedom. In two hours, he will be on the floor of the Constitutional Congress, listening to Nehru give his speech. Gandhi has read the speech, so well-written; a call to…

There was a time when we were so poor we had no debit card, no bank account. If we lost our token to ride the L we jumped the turnstile. More than once we had to walk when the buses stopped running—miles from home. One time we were stranded at Cook County Hospital without a quarter between us to call a friend for a pick up. With our treat money we used to buy a…

Our last nymph, they mention at the interview, abandoned her dryadic duties and fled screaming. A twiggy-haired troublemaker she and no great loss to Woodland World. They add: The gnome home, which she called an insult to her height and skills, is a charming decorative feature, laser cut from glue and sawdust, built to last and fixed amid mossy roots. Having accepted the caretaker’s job, I merge into trunk. Dance in the wind, host beetle…

I climbed the stairs to the roof of the student union. The campus seemed smaller, new buildings having sprouted up where we once had more open space. Before I could give it further thought, a large crow descended and landed on a handrail. Haven't I seen you before? the bird asked. Probably not, I replied. It's been a while since I studied here. The bird nodded, staying just out of reach in case I moved…

Father C’s cassock had the familiar reek of Player cigs and sweat as Tommy inched forward, squeezing the perfect stone overhead like he was waiting for the whistle, ready for a throw-in. When it was done, the old Pad gurgled a bit, snatched at the chain of his pectoral cross—as if he could pull himself out of the fix with it—and face-planted with a clang off the cruddy wheelbarrow into a heap of leaves. Only…

You write that summer did not take long to reach its end. And how, as you write this letter, it’s already dark outside and you’re waiting for the storm. The wind is picking up, you tell me. Your penmanship gets a bit shaky, the next bit says, as far as I can make out, the windows are waiting to be closed at the last minute. I can see you clearly settled in the red chair,…

You will be in line with a grocery cart half-filled with food that your empty wallet can’t pay for when he appears, masked, clad in head-to-toe black, hurdling each check out counter, pointing a black gun at every cashier. You will feel no fear because after all, what can he take except for your EBT card? Some of the customers will resist and he will smack them with the butt of his gun but still…

A woman runs. Her gauzy nightgown blotted red against a prison of dark grey sky. She bursts through the doors of a 24-hour market. Scrambles. Down aisles with rows of cartons. Are you my baby!? An egg peeks out. Barbs of light crisscross the store. A lone cashier rushes out screaming, This is why they cost so much!!, and locks the door behind her. The woman ducks and covers. Cradles the egg, Are you my…

Paper’s sudden swipe stings and draws blood. When Thumb’s able to pull himself out of his own mouth, he pushes Paper off his bar stool, leaving a red print on Paper’s pristine white 80-pound cardstock belly. Words whoosh about the room: been buddies for years, flirted with his girlfriend, owes money, poison pen letter. The bartender rushes over, folds Paper back onto his seat. A mistake, he says, as he guides Thumb back to the…

Taking shelter from the rain, my mother and I dip into the bookstore where I’m seduced by the titles in the architecture section and she succumbs to poetry. I study her: blue rain slicker, gray hair knotted at the nape of her neck, worry wrinkling the rigid corners of her mouth. Across warm pools of lamplight she considers the books: each cover an island, a decamping. We could use an escape. My grandmother wants to…

The crow landed on my balcony, black eyes gleaming like wet obsidian. You owe, it croaked. I paid already, I whispered. Interest accumulates. I offered bread. It laughed, a dry clicking sound. A tongue slithered between feathers. Shadows twitched at the edges of my vision. My reflection in the glass smiled without me. No one walks away from blood bargains, it said. Flesh always pays its price. It hopped forward, pecked my hand. The skin…

I was sitting on a coffee shop patio, talking to a guy about the fact I’d increased my dog-walking business by teaching the dogs to fly, when I was interrupted by someone who told me nonsense about the Russian Revolution, but I ignored him and told the man how I’d taught the dogs to fly, when someone else began blithering about the hometown hockey team, which didn’t interest me except on a sociological level, and…

I’m getting’ too porky for vines, Jack grumbles as he massages his sore, climb-cramped calves. His fleshy fingers riffle the story book, and he finds himself in the thick of a forest. Creak of trees, belch of toads. Birds dead from moldy bread crumbs line the path he trudges down. Flicks of lizard tails and tongues point the way. At road’s end, a gingerbread cottage festooned with pinwheels and sweets. Barbecue-scented smoke wafts around him.…

Each night, your father takes his shoulder muscles out of his body. Lays them end to end on the kitchen counter, pink and red striped bands stacked like strips of bacon. Picture pork loins wrapped in plastic, blood drained so you'd never know it once was a pig frolicking in mud, in its own lovely shit. During the day, at the plumbing supply store, he loads toilets and soaking tubs onto trucks. Goes to the…

Psychic number seventeen says, Stop crowing about it and do something. You pluck and flutter while your mother sits on a stool with a pincushion readying you for prom. Your parents match you with Preacher’s son, Leonard. At the dance he drinks spiked punch and vomits on your silky dress. You place seventh for Prom Queen. The winner dances with Leonard. You call the Hotline, and psychic number four says, Virgo? You received the Aquarius…

We fill up our super soakers with tuna oil and water, the canned fish smell rubbing into our brown and gold skin, marking us. We talked ourselves out of using chili pepper water, one of us understanding what pepper spray could do. We pile into the back of our friends' salt-rusted trucks, casually sit, our free hands hanging over the lip of the bed, an invisible cigarette we can’t afford, dangling from our fingertips. We…

It was almost completely by accident that we bought a three-thousand-dollar painting. We left for a cruise one Tuesday in February, our naked Christmas tree the only thing to see us off. I made you a card that looked like a ticket. We starred our itineraries in red pen, laughing that we both marked the art auction. I put on a yellow dress from Goodwill and you put on a shirt with no holes. It…

Some days the old dog scampers lithe as a pup, like everything is normal. Those times, her dappled body follows her spry brain's commands. Other days her legs collapse like ten pins, refusing to act as springboards to the couch with its comforting smells and soft cushions. Her humans have taken to moving their mouths and clapping their hands without sound, leaving her to figure out what they want of her. How infuriating that the…

For a time we had that storage unit out there near Kit Carson Park and that desiccated driving range and the bus line Park & Ride nobody but us really seemed to use much, and most Tuesdays or Wednesdays we’d take the 42 line north then east to visit some of the things we owned those short long years out west—skim boards, wobbly oak furniture, plastic totes fat with paperbacks and comics, flats of canned…

A miniature joker rides a wasp who veers through smoky air, buzzing gamblers with yellow and black striped advice. The joker hangs on with his knees, one hand in his pocket. Stars rise off the faces of the cards and tumble toward the ceiling. The joker can’t think of a single wish, though the floor’s littered with them. At the end of the joker’s wand sits another, tinier joker, arms outstretched like the letter T. Two of…

I could feel my imagination abandoning me in real time, spelunking through the narrow corridors of brain and skull, eventually rappelling out of my left ear and free to do as it pleased. It stood there in my study like a giant translucent amoeba, shapeshifting into a mongoose, a bed pan, a sewer grate, then a jukebox draped with a brassiere and stockings over it silently laughed in my direction. Surely I was imagining this…

The Factory is located on a side of town that people call depressed. Nobody questions or refutes this. How it has managed to stay in business is a different question. The Factory’s steel exterior has weathered nearly 100 harsh winters and looks the part. Atop the building are gigantic marquee letters spelling out The Factory’s corporate name. Management decided long ago to turn off the illuminated lights at night, as vandals would throw rocks at…

It began in the Basque region a drink passed down to Latin America then on to San Francisco but altered somehow changed but called cortado yet it was no longer the cortado of one century but it became a brand a drink that held its own cup the Gibraltar of drinks and had its own recipe that went on for decades yet which changed according to who made it and when drunk in Italy it…

Casting a reversal spell is really quite simple if you know the steps. Don’t bother with Pinterest tutorials unless you want to make your teenage boyfriend call you the day before his wedding to Katie from trigonometry whose Senior Superlative was half of the Cutest Couple that Never Was. To exact revenge against the other guy, go to Target. Consult the shopping list typed in your phone’s notes app: tea lights, cinnamon, cloves, black pepper,…

At the bus stop, a pillowy woman like a soft toy tells me another woman once stood where I’m standing now, between glassed advertisement and stony kerb. I used to see her every day but now she’s gone. Loud whisper: I hope she’s not dead. Yes, that’ll be me—flighty, wearing my whimsical feathered hat. Dial C for Change, another roll of the life dice, one last purple pleasure. I’m highly migratory like the bluefin tuna…

Irena liked a loud talker, though she was less comfortable with this one’s windmilling arms. As long as they never touched, she’d be okay. They might talk about books. Irena loved Chekov. Connor claimed to enjoy Stephen King but didn’t seem to read at all. He loved talking about washing windows with newspapers. Tuesday’s edition sprawled over the radiator, casually threatening. Streak-free! he yelled. Every time! An aide called his bluff, attempting to roll him toward…

Nothing softens the scorn of my mistrustful gaze. My proportions, elongated, punctuate my paranoia. Do they stare because of my drawn-out appearance or because they “get” my suspicions? People will goad you, as a cat goads a mouse, slicing it up slowly, playfully, to ribbons. Staring: a liberty people take, mistaking passivity for weakness. Yeah, come closer, you pop-eyed collaborator, and then watch the mouse shred the cat. But people know enough to keep their…

Say we could go to Puri again, our family as it was in 1977, on the beach, sitting in that restaurant, a little thatch hut, our hair dripping salt water. And we ate the best fish curry, fresh fish from the sea, you said. And I could not eat much, back then, I did not like fish. Ma was angry at the wasting of food, and you said, It’s okay, and I said Okay, I…

When I gave that curtain speech after my last show, saying I was going out for some Neapolitan ice cream, I wish I’d used my timing to jinx the show for that too-young Streisand vacuum-packed into a sequined gown meant for me. After all, I invented Dolly—the memorable Dolly, not Channing’s no-pipes garbage—just like Reno, Annie, Rose, and Sally. The stage wouldn’t have those remarkable women without me. You could say I originated the strong…

Tuesday was fat. The new bar invited me to try my luck. One coupon got me a free drink, another, a slice of cake—a chance at a Mardi Gras prize. All the drinks were named after storms. I ordered a squall. She was sitting across from me, chipping away at the ice in her gale. Glitter speckled her arms and shoulders. For weeks, I would sneeze gaudy shards from my nose. You look lost, she…

In a souvenir shop, weekend trip, my wife resting at our hotel, I encountered a stranger I did not like, close to my age, sixties or seventies. He seemed to be staring right through me. Did he suspect me of something? Did I remind him of someone he perceived as loathsome? Did he think he knew me? He did not look familiar to me, though he did remind me of other people who felt at…

A woman seated at the front of our half-full train car started reading the billboards along the tracks in a loud voice as we rolled out of High Cross Station. Her voice was clear, and her laugh could have been terrifying except she used it as punctuation in an elegant way. She said Yes, she’d think about buying her next car at Ray’s Lot on Rt, 21. No credit! No problem! She shared her hope…

All through my childhood and well into my adulthood we burned trash in a barrel. A burning barrel. You could see burning barrels in the back gardens of houses and in alleyways which were often too narrow for any kind of flame. We didn’t just burn paper. We burned what would burn. The sparks would fly high depending on what was thrown into the fire. Our barrel was well worn and had around the rim…

Ēadweard, the oldest Edward, barked a lot at fellow fisherman whilst in a tippy early bark.  Bark, roughened from the prettier French barque. Then came Edrus or Edward the 5th, a snappy serf. Eduard, a yelly woodcutter who'd bark his shins with his axe, was the 8th or 9th. Eventually—we shall never know when, why—the hard layers of bark protecting the heartwood softened and peeled. Revealing in 1906, Edward the whatever-eth, the quiet. My grandpa.…

So blows a thin man through a megaphone: Because what morality cannot prevent, government must. Because the Blues is the call of the Devil. A wall to deaden the shout of the trumpet, the sympathy of the piano. To imprison slow dancing and strong drink, red lips and gold shimmer. Pearl necklaces—graciously given as birthday gifts, now knotted and twirled—must be punished. Your wives and daughters have fled. You have no Sunday roast. No corn-silk debutante to…

He uses a large pallet knife to scoop and smear layer upon layer of paint, then angles it and blends until a prairie rolls out along the canvas. Sky—blue swirled with wisps of white, above windblown tall grass—swaths of green and pale yellows. He chooses a smaller knife and uses its tip to poke in delicate flower blossoms—sweet pinks and mauves speckle the field. Until he steps back he doesn’t see her hidden there at…

Phoebe folds into herself, clutching her daughter’s pillow, inhales wisps of Sherrie’s gardenia scent that lingers there. She clutches a photo of Sherrie sitting cross-kneed on the hood of her boyfriend’s Camaro, his arm cinched tight around her middle. Like Bonnie and Clyde, huh? Vince had joked. Now, Phoebe struggles to push back gutting images of her daughter that endlessly loop, along with the questions throbbing in her head. Vince raps on Sherrie’s bedroom door,…

In the discount store window is a fresh-looking pair of black trousers. A sign below them reads, Pants, with smoking pockets. From the sidewalk, two pockets can be seen. No smoke issues from any part of the pants. The price pinned to one leg is six dollars. No doubt, the trousers are used, worn in an office setting, slick in the behind, a hole imagining itself soon for the inseam. I go in and try the prescient pants…

Today I saw an exhibit about the seven deadly sins in the basement of the art museum downtown. Lust, the wall said, is often evoked by the image of a goat. I watched a seventeenth-century lady stroke one’s head and snickered cuz it thrilled me to think of her wanting that bad. I mean, her eyes sagged diagonally, that’s how bad she’d got! Me, I want Xanax. I want a bigger tax refund. I stood…

He's hunting for a new version of hell. Can't you be satisfied with the one you've got? says his wife. The brain needs novelty, he replies. I need something different. Everyone’s got a pointy-headed brother, a cactus that won't bloom, a seven-year itch that makes you sweat. She says, Tell me about it, twisting her ring and watching the cumulous-riddled blue move over their car. How much sky can clouds occupy anyway? How many circles…

After that, a grumble of ground and sky, and a scumble of clouds spreads a dull cast across our land. We cross checkpoints, move again, our elders lowing like cattle on the way to slaughter till, later, or sooner, we lower them into alien earth. In our new homes, we dim lights and expectations. Mornings are the harshest, the loudspeakers so shrill, their calls for drudgery and praise. We sleep in or lay low, swaddle…

A rainbow-knit cap covers her patchy scalp, but she can still turn men to stone.  She adopts two puppies from the shelter and buys green bananas. Defiance is a glamour she wields like the venom of that flat rattlesnake—caught in the hay baler—that she named Heirloom and promised to will to her favorite child. She dozes in the front yard, half-dreaming the traffic. Sometimes she’ll clock a driver, pull off her cap, cross her eyes,…