My Dead Labrador Retriever Visits in the Form of a Hostess

Then, around 8 that morning, I saw the big woman in our garden. She lay between the mounds of snow in a red cocktail dress, her shoulders exposed, the thin straps of her dress biting into her fat white shoulders. I couldn't see her face; she was lying with her back to the window, using her arm as a pillow. She wore scuffed, high-heeled silver sandals -- her legs crossed at the ankles. I stuck my forehead against the glass, hoping to see more. The glass was cold and comfortable against my skin, but after half an hour, my head started to ache. The ache had a beat, in/out. I breathed against the glass and drew an outline of the woman in the steam. I put on my slippers, and then my large, tan, puffy coat, still stained from last week's dog puke. The woman didn't move when I squatted and poked her with a hanger. I touched her shoulder and she felt hot, like frying pan hot. She sighed and rolled over, and said, without opening her eyes, "Nevermind. I was just trying to see if the door was really alarmed."

Dream Dog

Barking bangs from the corners of the garage.
Drool pools in your lap. Face the size of the

horizon, scummed puddle eyes, muzzle and grey
gums. Black hide, burned at the elbows and chin

to pink. Your snot-smeared hands, struggling
with the rope. Paws scrabbling like falling pigeons.

The reek of his tongue; he has been eating something
dead from the trunk. Out-of-tune horns, cellos, from

the front lawn; he whines a pinkish nursery song.
His face is your horizon; eyes the size of scummed

pools, red muzzle and gums, teeth grease-smeared,
like your struggling hands. Drool puddles in your lap.

Me, reading some stuff. Yes, this is kinda old, but I just figured out how to embed a video.



Call for submissions below.

Summer Horses

through the screen door
the crunch of gravel as pick-ups roll
into the gas station next door,
the hum of a lawn mower or electric
saw from some other street

the parakeet by the window murmurs
to himself in the mirror, plucking
at a wing, if he picks anymore
he'll have nothing left

the reek of his cage mixes
with the sour scent of our pillows,
your sparse hair sweat-damp,
you pretend to sleep

the horses in the poster above the bed
are turned away, looking up
the faded hill at a fly-specked house

Big Black Dog


Head like a gunboat. Blue
eyes: stars constantly
receding. Breath of rotten
Pontiacs, half-buried
in the backyard. Follows

me to the dinner party,
insists on my lap.
He savages the chicken,
the sweet potato. No one
clucks or looks away.

The short woman next
to us, with a sound like
a flattened sparrow, lifts
a chunk of orange
something from her hair.

Dessert is on his tongue,
all over my face and neck.
Mommy, he murmurs into
the puddling ice cream, Mommy.

Hannah and the Ill-fitting Wig


Hannah has dirty
hair, I tell you through

the open window. She is
a dirty blonde. You

shake your head at me,
pushing your shopping

cart as your yellow
lab trudges ahead,

his heavy belly
bobbing from side

to side. You start
to sing about the flag

again, adjusting your
flowered hat, leaving

paper petals with
every unsteady step.