On the Back Porch, Dorianne Laux

The cat calls for her dinner. On the porch I bend and pour brown soy stars into her bowl, stroke her dark fur. It’s not quite night. Pinpricks of light in the eastern sky. Above my neighbor’s roof, a transparent moon, a pink rag of cloud. Inside my house are those who love me. My … Continue reading

Dark Charms, Dorianne Laux

Dark Charms Eventually the future shows up everywhere:the burly summers and unslept nightsin deep lines and dark splotches, thinning skin.Here is the corner store grown to a condo,the bike reduced to one spinning wheel,the ghost of a dog that used to be, her trail,no longer trodden, just a dip in the weeds.The clear water we … Continue reading

Little Epic Against Oblivion: 9/11

9/11 Cello When a dead tree falls in a forest it often falls into the arms of a living tree. The dead, thus embraced, rasp in wind, slowly carving a niche in the living branch, shearing away the rough outer flesh, revealing the pinkish, yellowish, feverish inner bark. For years the dead tree rubs its … Continue reading

China, by Dorianne Laux

From behind he looks like a man I once loved, that hangdog slouch to his jeans, a sweater vest, his neck thick-veined as a horse cock, a halo of chopped curls. He orders coffee and searches his pockets, first in front, then from behind, a long finger sliding into the slitted denim the way that … Continue reading