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Tag Archives: Merrill Oliver Douglas
Blame the pickup in my rear view— how could I brake or swerve? It was like steering downhill on ice, eyes straight, the whole body insisting No! as the car crunched comfortably over the ribs— and then rolled away down … Continue reading
I’m down on all fours sniffing with the dust mice, nesting in the cushions, chewing through the mail. And outside, fingering the grass one broken blade at a time: the work’s sticky and takes all day. I dream my son … Continue reading
Since long before we moved here, people have been putting up flyers and others have been tearing them down, and over the years this rash of staples has spread over every pole on the street. The poles tilt vaguely left … Continue reading
Puzzle: how do I inch this boat among trailing branches and vines, find the one open space, poke the reeds with the paddle and pry out the Red Bull can? Then figure the best wrist action for flipping a burger … Continue reading
I love you too much to wear those earrings you bought for my birthday, still in their box in my top drawer fifteen years later. You chose well: pairs of gold wings at rest, each clasping an opal. Grace notes … Continue reading
Visors shading their foreheads, sunglasses shading their eyes, in well-pressed clothes, they step from carts stopped here and there on the greens. Their legs look strong, but some walk with shoulders bowed to the ghost weight of children, grown now, … Continue reading
1 The funeral? It was a hoax. He’s lived for years in this walkup, the dishes washed, shelves stacked with soup cans. There’s no young wife, no collection of flawed, half-finished paintings, just this day bed, a TV. Each morning … Continue reading
For your drenched fingers sweeping my hair, your tears of rain and light, thank you, my slightly taller sister, who once held yourself stiff with anger, but learned to unclench the first muscle, the next, till all your pleasure fanned … Continue reading
Pale-skinned, dark-haired, seven or eight years old, he stalks through shin-high water, one raised hand air-slicing—”One – Two – Three”—as if counting out rules known to stave off death, or snapping commands to a tight knot of loyal men just … Continue reading