Poetry

After Jose Hernandez Diaz What gave him away was we could both hear an American flag burning. David sat across, his take-a-number ticket poking out from his patch pocket. The blinds were open—we could see the particles sloping between us. He’d been polite enough to listen to all my record-crate schmaltz before asking where I …

On-ramps braided together the way a turnbuckle twists and the sky was catching fire. Papa was a man of 15-to-20 phrases off the clock—he wouldn’t talk if talking seemed rehearsed. There were 20-to-30 imperatives on the road. “Play the drinking beer song,” “Take care of your jeans, mijo.” Things of that nature. I couldn’t tell …

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