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...
by Danielle Deulen | Mar 10, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
Dangerous for Girls by Connie Voisine . It was the summer of Chandra Levy, disappearing from Washington D.C., her lover a Congressman, evasive and blow-dried from Modesto, the TV wondering in every room in America to an image of her tight jeans and piles of curls...
by Danielle Deulen | Mar 3, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
Cities in Dust by Siouxsie and the Banshees Water was running, children were running You were running out of time. Under the mountain, a golden fountain Were you praying at the Lares shrine? But oh your city lies in dust, my friend Oh, oh your city lies in dust, my...
by Danielle Deulen | Feb 24, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
The Same City by Terrance Hayes The rain falling on a night in mid-December, I pull to my father’s engine wondering how long I’ll remember this. His car is dead. He connects jumper cables to his battery, then to mine without looking in at me and the child. Water beads...
by Danielle Deulen | Feb 17, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
The Cinnamon Peeler by Michael Ondaatje If I were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reek you could never walk through markets without the profession of my fingers floating over you....
by Danielle Deulen | Feb 10, 2019 | Lit from the Basement
Litany by Rebecca Lindenberg O you gods, you long-limbed animals, you astride the sea and you unhammocked in the cypress grove and you with your hair full of horses, please. My thoughts have turned from the savor of plums to the merits of pity—touch and interrupt me,...
