M

M was born in Bad Axe, a small town in the joint of Michigan’s thumb, near Lake Huron. She left the day she graduated high school, wore clothes she barely fit into. Parts of her were always squirting out. Married the next year. Followed him east where she spent the winter snorting cocaine off a rented coffee table. When spring broke she stole the car and drove to Nashville. That year she bought a small tourist hotel on an island off South America. She came to Detroit in the off-season. To make hard currency or have a baby. She kept a job with a hedge fund millionaire who watched her swim in his heated pool. I met her at this point in the story, her mouth all stretched and confused by other languages. I have no idea how she found the spoons of applesauce to put in her mouth. Living was an art she made that broke my nerves. She found her way into my spare room for three months. During the evenings she wrote to Brazil, long letters explaining snow.

Kay Ryan refracted the best of it

However carved up
or hair down we get
become and making the best of it
as thought it doesn't matter that
her acres down to one
square foot is our garden
and could be one
we rejoice if it flourishes
one being could nourish us

I'll have what they're having

Restaurant fights are the best fights
You're going at it
all hushed and hidden
knives and sauces
the waiter is in on the game
the room churched in candles
and you've got death
sitting right there on the plate

 

Sayulita (Excerpt)

I think I had always loved her
I remember now
I dreamt a lot then
She often visited
Sometimes quiet and far away
Sometimes in an avocado room with my grandmother
Sometimes catching red butterflies by the lemon tree
We never talked
Never touched
But in each dream
She would stop what she was doing
Slowly lower her arms to her sides
Turn to look at me
Silent
Her eyes as big as eggs

Hesperdina

Buenos Aires
smells like hay
Girls with rusty voices
and lard slicked hair
walk past each other
emptying their pockets
on ice cream scarves