There’s a word for sadness that dwells in the small of the back, the dell where you bury your chin. You mark the page where the animal comes down to drink from stale water. There’s a word for release born of grief, tempered with soapy musk in the creases. There is no gazelle. There’s a catalogue of frequently absent hours, a figure of speech for ellipsis that starts at the throat and...
THE APHASIA EPIDEMIC
Suddenly everyone was speaking poetry, or something vaguely like it. Wheel harvest if blank I said to my wife, thinking how did you sleep? Spinning around eye face she balked, thinking what the hell are you talking about? We stared at our reflections in the bathroom mirror, rabid toothpaste mouths dripping into his-and-her sinks. The morning news was a total disaster. A well dressed man and...