by Danielle Deulen | Apr 14, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
Lightening by A. Molotkov I wrap my mother’s body in a small blanket. She is light in my arms. Sprawled by a fig tree, my father asks, Are thoughts made of our own flesh? I hesitate. Our flesh is a ship stripped of sails. We listen to the sound of the oars. A fig...
by Danielle Deulen | Apr 7, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
[but the rain is full of ghosts tonight] by dawn lonsinger and it has taken something from me, driven my feet from the earth, tendered a gift that displaces me. The water pours through where-I-was like a lesson no one will tell me—a breaking up by filling. Each...
by Danielle Deulen | Mar 31, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
Animals by Frank O’Hara Have you forgotten what we were like then when we were still first rate and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth it’s no use worrying about Time but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves and turned some sharp corners the...
by Danielle Deulen | Mar 24, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
The Romantic Lead by Ian Williams I yawned all the while we stood on the prow of a ship with our arms open in front of a green screen, I mean, a sunset. The week before I had to watch myself, my black and white self in a fedora, quick step through lines, We’ll always...
by Danielle Deulen | Mar 17, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
The Soild I Have Eaten by Aimee Nezhukumatathil The state soil of New York is named for the place where a man lost his finger to a rattlesnake. The finger lies quiet in the ground. The snake’s great-great-grandsnakes still chitter through this Honeoye soil. Sometimes...
