Four summers back I saw myself breaking my hand against a man’s face, interrupting a word so certain and raw I would not listen, and my fist named him a liar. But I only watched, one eye keeping target, the other dilating with drops from an approaching, wounded future. The doctor is smiling now, or […]
It’s the 1% of the 1% now who sleep, dream, and, in a reversal that few predicted, make a great show of doing their own laundry. They fawn over their Egyptian carbon sheets, platinum washing machines, and scented detergent far more than their hybrid rocket-yachts that ease with thunder from the Caribbean to the Sea […]
A poem by Phillip Aijian
Previous page Next page