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Tag Archives: Jane Rosenberg LaForge
The left hand at the bellows, the right at thought, the dribble of minutes over paint and stains, so the nestling appears as puddles of water, orbit of echoes and polish. This is how the bones re-assemble though they lack … Continue reading
A childhood of smoke, like news electrons bring to other particles in the subatomic universe; there is steam, and ice, and the marsh that remembers the tread of hiking boots: all the ways children know someone is watching, or the … Continue reading
Next time I’m joining a cult. Not of one but of a few too many that follow a hairy familiar who dances like a demon on a string. He’ll talk scat and play the percussive parts of Stephen Foster on … Continue reading
I wished we had done this in Paris: Your respiration on my forehead, your bird lungs on my lips. Your body is long and your chest disposes of robins and cardinals: red tails, red breasts, red forgiveness. When the world … Continue reading
Ping and fissure, rejoicing and revelation: they came from his aunts and cousins: his little daughter is brilliant, a din like lips smacking, a rap to attention, shuffling cards against the green felt table protector, the friction of homemade manicures … Continue reading
I can’t imagine many people attended, suffering for the last glance of a body that plagued them all: he was a sick man, a difficult man, re-composed after a car crash with rubber ribs, titanium hips, and inchoate lamination. I’d … Continue reading