Tag Archives: Kari Flickinger

This cycle ends in thirty years. If we could shift to love. Shift our winding guts. Shift to crickets instead of honey. Shift to non-cow, to vegetation to pumpkin, corn. The original banana—to coconut, olive—not almond. Close our mouths until … Continue reading →

What words are now filed away from her seal? [Where mother is pressed between maiden and hag.] Nine months. A misery—oh, Mary. [The only survivor to escape his Fall.] And words are all. They’re planted seeds. Words grow, grant, build … Continue reading →

The off-brand dolls had heads and arms that would pop right off. I had these and walnut shells from the tree that loomed over our rented house. Dolls are inadequate building material, unless you want to play at being domestic … Continue reading →

Tell me I am like this oak             dousing rain on our noses.             My ample sinew invites you             but sometimes I let inclement                         weather through. Tell me my wrists crook fragile             as leaves floating from             the wind                         ‘s shrewd embrace.             Worship … Continue reading →