From June, 2018

Slow Good Gas

Good Jim would be listening to country music if his dang radio hadn’t got slammed against the east wall of his gas station during that last little tornado. His poor old back is totally buggered too. Well, almost. He sure can’t fix tires anymore. Jim’s the kind of guy if he’s got extra coffee and…

Pathlights Home

The other half of me lives across the world. The roots of mama and baba, agong and apo, cling to the rocks of a red clay soil, While their meristems were supplanted, relegated to the cool nectar of Coca-Cola. As I dig my forehead into the frost-bitten plane window, I imagine lines convalescing upon the…

Sakura

Pinky-white, I walk content your blossom aisle. Treacly chicken treats with cold Asahi. I taste it. I see you – open-petal parachutes, Words, in a flurry, settle gently on the page.     ABOUT THE AUTHOR Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana started reciting poetry at age five, when she attended Speech and Drama lessons in the historic market…

Juicy Chicken

I like the skin on chicken, and I’ve never found out if that’s weird or not. My dad thought it was weird, so he’d rip my skin off and feed it to the dogs. My mom didn’t think it was weird, but she also didn’t eat chicken. She’d just smile and watch us eat it…

In Fargo

              The river likes to flood the city— licking facades, tasting the marrow               of buildings, concrete surfaces                             swallowing streets, sidewalks.               And you, dry as an arroyo, you wait at your hotel desk, counting raindrops,               wavering with your inverted face                    elongating down the window panes.               Beyond: a semi-truck, a white buffalo gallops across the wind-flaying highway.               He…

Sky Watching

The only light to pierce the worn concrete wall comes through a window that’s situated, bafflingly, at waist level. It’s likely the depression-era architects who designed this building thought no criminal should have the luxury of gazing at rolling clouds in comfort. But inmate 80008-135 doesn’t mind kneeling next to a steel toilet for his…

Nothing Much to Lose

Perhaps, he thinks, the closer one gets to the end, the more one remembers the beginning. He hasn’t thought of Petra in over sixty years, but now he sits in the darkening park and the memories come unbidden, so sudden, so unexpected, so clear. He remembers the sweet smell of the stable, the soft touch…

Images of You

I was in some semblance of participation at the writer’s group, attempting to divert any conscious construction of stilted prose specifically by imagining myself in a favorite setting. Picture the place in your mind. The monotone of the instructor was not as hypnotically conducive as intended. My attempt at self-transport felt briefly like big surging…