If you have experienced trauma, and PTSD, you may qualify for one of their clinical studies. A probability?
And pushed me out. She performs weavings of interpretive movement and spoken word, and works as a community educator and peace activist locally, nationally, and internationally. I want a red dress. I want it flimsy and cheap, I want it too tight, I want to wear it until someone tears it off me.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm your worst fears about me, to show you how little I care about you or anything except what I want. Kim Addonizio has published five collections of poetry, two novels, two books on writing poetry, and a collection of stories, and has co-edited a book of writing on tattoos.
Her latest book of poems is Lucifer at the Starlite W. Jones, and The Palace of Illusions, a collection of stories. Visit her web site at www. But not that, and not that ring your father gave me when he left for sea.
Some days I went for value: the cocktail ring with its fifty-two diamonds spiraling. We have to do this now, she whispered. Like who? I began to ask, but the word gone hung between us, a clue so terrible and bright we both turned away.
She teaches the low-residency M. All of my stinging, alone in the night, calling to you from the darkness of known things, is gone, leaving me stunned in the quiet.
His first collection, A Strange Catechism was published in July. To read more of his poems, or to find out about his work, visit JustenAhren. He will have two children and be happy in his marriage and it will be a long one. This will come from me, his father, though I did not marry once and have a long and happy marriage.
He will have children and be a good father. With his beloved wife he will have a home in which he shares the great goodness of his life and heart.
He will get old and remain healthy. He will have friends all his life who love him and consider him among them. His wife will love him and not grow tired of his ways, as he will be a good husband and understand that a thing is a thing, that there are numbers which add up to four, and that one-hundred can be divided many ways, that there are beginnings, middles and ends, no matter how the universe was created.
There is a you, there is an other. He will understand this. He will always understand this.
It came from inside of him and flowed through his skin into the air and what I saw was light shining off his face. I was father of the boy. The boy was mine. The light was his. An audio recording of his poem on divorce has appeared online in The Cortland Review.
Kathleen Aponick: Man Playing the Balalaika You were walking the beach at Yalta, smoking, alone, beckoning to us in a woolen cap, clothes too flimsy for the cold spring air.
Were you a laborer on holiday? When we said we were teachers from America's posts in Germany, you looked down, saying something: Was it prisoner, or prisoner-of-war? Turning back, you spied the balalaika, one I bought at the tourist shop.
You needed little coaxing to play. Was it a folk song?
A dance? The tune was so light and fast on the stony beach the sea and sky seemed stunned in response to the racing strings. Yalta is far from the Greek Isles but you could have been Orpheus, mesmerizing us with his lyre. As then, music casts a spell. After marrying and living briefly in Newtonville my husband Tony and I moved to Andover.
I write to respond to the world around me, its beauty, cruelty, moments of joy and sorrow, and to the feelings and memories I have about people and events. In our one-room wooden house, dirt floor swept smooth, they see me, six, and Mami, cast iron pan in hand but nowhere for a man to hide.
They stomp out, chicken shit and feathers clinging to their boots. Mami ladles sopa de pollo into our bowls. Judith Askew: Moments i. The light lies, an odd intruder, another character in this scene of barrier, inhibition, restraint—or is it anticipation? The woman in her very tight blue dress turns from the open file drawer with a tiny smile as she looks toward a paper on the floor.
Or is she peeking at the man behind the desk holding a report unnaturally upright? Will they collide awkwardly, both springing at once to pick up the paper, warm hands touching, his tie so straight, her stockings and heels shaping her legs just so?
My Office, By this time offices are frenzied: stacked papers pile on every surface, men answer their own phones, windows clamp tightly shut. Once, down into my 17th floor view, a window washer silently glided, dangling boots, then knees, then the scaffold where he sat sweeping his arms like a snow angel, clearing swaths of sparkling glass through his soapy scrim.