Lexington Horse Mania. Danielle Weeks. The Starry Night whirled across a horse of fiberglass and paint. Another bore the ocean on its iridescent hide, a mane of cresting waves that never crashed. This is the saddest thing, my sister said as she traced its jeweled eyes, its body frozen in rest without release. My favorite horse ...
The Starry Night whirled across a horse of fiberglass and paint. Another bore the ocean on its iridescent hide, a mane of cresting waves that never crashed. This is the saddest thing, my sister said as she traced its jeweled eyes, its body frozen in rest without release. My favorite horse was bolted down and wore a coat of junk, brass and steel, glued-on gears and washers, hinges, wrenches, the number seven from a forgotten door. All this extra other collecting, guarding a hollowed middle that held a metal heart. The horse’s shoulder under my hand trembled with traffic or the longing for home that thundered hot in my bones like phantom hooves in the street. The white-fenced lawns of Lexington were not where we belonged, my sister with her dreams of water, my body already too full of running in circles. My sister ran her hands along a brick neck, mortar painted blue like lines on a map of a world made easy: all straight roads and corners, the beginning bending clear and painless as the end.
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Danielle Weeksreceived her BFA in creative writing from the University of Evansville and her MFA in poetry from Eastern Washington University. Her work has been published in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Cobalt Review, Lucid Rhythms, the Ohio River Review, and the Southern Literary Review.
The Starry Night whirled across a horse of fiberglass ... My favorite horse was bolted down and wore a ... the beginning bending clear and painless as the end.
Theory Slut. Stacy Graber. I once dated a woman who looked like Fran Lebowitz but I didn't recognize her as Fran Lebowitz. I had never read her. I would have recognized ... went crying to the groom, my colleague, a guy who knew theory. ... the lemon
Men with torn clothes speak to the Home Kids. Do you have any change? Goose pimples ... The man in the apron hurls the fat, shiny thing over the heads of the.
Neighborhood Watch. Sandra Kolankiewicz. Before dawn each morning I see the obvious parts of his daily routine. First the bedroom light flips on. Within.
She wore Eastern European, tuxedo shirt, jeans, cowboy boots. Her face like. Kafka's sister. She played with her watch and had a split between her front teeth.
Strip-Mall Bakery. Beth McDermott. We're all standing on black and white checkered vinyl, over land altered by glaciers. In the first stages, so-called break rollers crack the kernel open. The children smudge a case of assorted donuts. I spent my chi
stages, so-called break rollers crack the kernel open. The children smudge a case of assorted donuts. I spent my childhood looking at braided spikelets in rapid.
sunflower seeds and Bazooka Joe, tightening and re-tightening our batting gloves, rubbing small dabs of pine tar into the underside of the bills of our hats.
in magma, and thought, We should have gotten a house on a hill. i was mauled horribly ... a credit card number into the computer that would save us all. After the.