Jacksonville, Vermont, by Jason Shinder Because I am not married, I have the skin of an orange that has spent its life in the dark. Inside the orange I am blind. I cannot tell when a hand reaches in and breaks the atoms of the blood. Sometimes a blackbird will bring the wind into my hair. Or the yellow clouds falling on the cold floor are animals beginning to fight each other out of their drifting misery. All the women I have known have been ruined by fog and the deer crossing the field at night. Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike this:Like Loading...
Little America, by Jason Shinder My friend says she is like an empty drawer being pulled out of the earth. I am the long neck of the giraffe coming down to see what she doesn’t have. What holds us chained to the same cold river, where we are surprised by the circles we make in the ice? When we talk about the past it is like pushing stones back into the earth. Sometimes she digs her nails into her leather bag to find out where my heart is. The white sleeves of her shirt are bright with waves when I visit. When we lie, we live a little longer— which is unbelievable. If you love someone, the water moves up from the well. Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike this:Like Loading...