Tag Archives: Veronica Lupinacci

From Tranströmer’s “The Forest” Go there alone          you poor pair         of startled wings The cracks   that draw on you   like dried skulls                         on some remote Melanesian island are made entirely of sliverslips—no gravity in them. The thousandfold roles   you mourn are just          ancestral trophies … Continue reading →

for one afternoon the rest of the day’s hallways are attacked by flying assholes—winged brown fairies eating sour candy. This is how the sound of beating a bottle of empty moisturizer against your palm to get out the bottom bits … Continue reading →

after returning from Miraflores She is moss & tea today— sleeping Spanish, chamomile steam. She is the space in the white wood-framed window tickling the curtains as they usher inside a wide-sky swamp song. Sawgrass angels rubbing their feet together … Continue reading →

I don’t remember my father’s fear or embarrassment. I don’t remember how my mother’s pupils must have floated in her head as she slid down the waxy booth. I don’t remember what she had taken or what my father said … Continue reading →

I know you believed me, Dear, over our polite public whiskeys when I whispered, if I could slaughter you and get away with it, I would. We already bound each other like pigs, stuffed our own mouths with apples, turned … Continue reading →