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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