by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
By Maggie Kennedy For Alex You and I pick one by onethe wet stones glittering the shore,greedily pocketing the shine,until our shorts bulgelike hamster cheeks,and we walk bow-leggedto the car, turning every fewfeet to look back at the lake as if her shifting moods couldnot be summoned at will, as…
By Maggie Kennedy That song again,and I am in that kissagain that felt so rightbut for the right person. The sudden downpour,dash from the bardown the lamp-lit street,breathless and laughingat our sodden clothes,smell of mud hungrybeneath melting snow,and what the hellshock of his lipsquieting my shivers. A kiss that mighthave…
By Maggie Kennedy “The orange tastes like a refrigerator,” my son says,spitting out his bite and pretending to gag,and though I have never tasted a refrigeratorI know what he means. The orange tastes like the plastic it was wrapped in.And though I have never eaten plastic,the conjured smell fills my…