The horoscope writer kills herself on a Tuesday. It is, by coincidence, the day the weekly paper comes out. Townspeople read her column and find it mundane but also uncanny. Here, some of them feel, are words from beyond the veil.
'éetu: so be it, he says—
& I ignite a flame
striking a wooden match
along the torso of
my god: a face mirroring
a boy afraid of only him-
self: a shadow
spills behind us
& after the first course, your corsage flatlines Beautiful convulsions Then, it sprouts wings, thorns, claws its way up
your arm to swallow you goosebump by goosebump
As I become accustomed at last to gray dawn and its labyrinth— a fine-etched map of running paths, routes crystallized
on dormer glass—but…
Mom is pregnant. In nine months, our family will never be the same. Our father won't make it. A baby will. Today we will go skiing. My mother calls for directions.
James Baldwin once said that he wasn't able to really write about America until he left America. And I have this feeling that if you’re in a place...
This week, Gulf Coast is headed to the land of the stars--literary stars, that is! Wednesday, March 30th through Saturday, April 2nd, Gulf Coast will be…
UPDATE: This piece has been edited since its original posting date. I’ve noticed a trend. It might be chalked up to coincidence, but I’m not convinced.…