Archive for the ‘Short Shorts’ Category

Three short pieces

July 30, 2006 5 comments


Mingling. The savvy of words, the sail, the shine. Soulsolid, brainlit, fingerplucked, earbent. And that’s before clothes! Talk to me.


Warmth of the Body

Something to notice – the warmth of your body imparted to objects you were touching, but no longer touch: your bedclothes, your underwear, your necklace of stones.


The Furry Inquisitive Snout

I understand that writing is a furry inquisitive snout, poking itself into small and cluttered places, searching for choice bits of trash, unusual secrets, maybe a fragment of sky blue egg fallen from the nest. A furry inquisitive snout, a naked prehensile tail.

by Catherine Ednie of louder

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On Grief

July 28, 2006 13 comments

Think here of orange peel and cloves, boiled
against winter in November kitchens,
or the flutter square of a tea bag, or ellipsis
of deer scat, punctuation of a spooked animal.

Try to think–but a thought, cinder-
block certain, eludes in grief. Ideas
dissipate like twilight. Life is like a gut
punch, thought the breath

you cannot draw. Life like the vertigo
in the afterblur of a camera flash,
magnesium dreams ghost the cornea,
the pupil, crackle the optic nerve,

things long gone now insistent
half-images, always there
when you close your eyes
to wish them back.

by Gabriel Welsch

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July 26, 2006 4 comments

I am dreaming climbing slowly up the stairs in the house where I grew up. I stand on the landing. All its doors are closed. I open my bedroom door. The glow of the gasfire, and my hearthrug like a shaggy dog’s coat. On hands and knees I go and bury my face in its tickly softness. In the bed a human form – the top of a child’s head, her sleep-swept hair just visible on the pillow. I know that it is me. And that I mustn’t wake her. I creep, stealthy as a parent on Christmas night, to the door.

by Polly Blackley

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July 24, 2006 27 comments
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July 22, 2006 11 comments

The fog is lifting over the salt marsh behind Petey’s. The waitress sets down my carton of fish chowder along with a plastic spoon and two bags of oyster crackers. Blonde hair piled on her head and wearing a bright pink hoodie, she smiles and the lines around her eyes say lived-in and ‘welcome.’

She turns to the couple at the next table and they chat about someone they all know. Locals. The summer crowds are long gone. I empty the tiny paper square of pepper onto my chowder, wondering if my parents came here often.

by Leslee of Third House Journal

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July 20, 2006 9 comments

Lifting my face from
out of my hands
I see that the world
as it was is still there.

But I see too
that my hands
have opened like
two leaves and that
my old sunflower face
is turned towards light.

by Dick Jones of Patteran Pages

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July 18, 2006 12 comments
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July 18, 2006 4 comments

They kept an owl on a tether at the temple of Athena at Corinth. I used to go visit him every day after rounding up a dead rat or two. It was a mutually beneficial relationship: people who would never think of giving alms to a beggar would gladly hand over whatever their cats had caught, and the priestess at the temple always gave me something for the rats. “Your breakfast, sire!” I’d murmur with a bow. The owl would open a single eye, dim as a lantern in the blazing afternoon.

by Diogenes

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Veils Suite Albumblatt II

July 16, 2006 8 comments
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Chevra kadisha

July 16, 2006 6 comments

It used to startle her, how cold an uninhabited body is.

But she can’t help the wave of tenderness that comes when she passes a warm washcloth over breast and belly. Everyone succumbs to the impulse to whisper a word of comfort as the stream of water pours.

Sand makes it real. These eyes won’t open again, not here.

Wrapped in white, the body looks smaller. She’s always startled that it isn’t weightless when they lift it and place it in its nest of wood curls, like a precious etrog with a long way to travel before the holiday comes.

by Rachel Barenblat of Velveteen Rabbi

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