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It had been raining, and it was raining. Everything around me was happening in a language I didn’t understand. Often, I would just listen to the rain the words floating around me but never sticking. There was an erected crane and on the first day of rain it was partially obscured by clouds. But it had been… It had been raining for so many days. I couldn’t remember which direction the crane was facing as one part of the sky was indistinguishable from another part of the sky. 

In Tokyo it had not been raining for 10 days but it felt like it had been raining for 10 days. Green leaves saturated in water. Feelings fragmented into a memory of a time. I was living in Portland, and it rained for 10 days. I took the bus. The distance between the bus stop and work my feet would get wet. All the bushes looked like wet yarn. I would go to Honkin’ Huge Burrito for lunch but because it was raining. I didn’t go out for lunch. Outside the store window where I worked busses were honking at cars; the street covered in leaves.

I hated my job. I sat in the breakroom reading Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain. My stomach was mad at me. The words mostly floated around me. I was zoned out thinking about eating. My hand turned the pages. I can’t really remember but somewhere in the book. The main character goes skiing and maybe it was avalanche or just a white-out. I thought he might die. It was a moody book where I could be deceived into thinking everyone would die sooner or later. And they would all die trying not to be disappointed. But they would in fact die disappointed. Anyway, I inhabited the fear of snow.

Anytime I find myself in intense snow the fear inhabits me. There is no snow. Only heavy rain and puddles and smelly buses all running late or never showing up. It was the 9^th day of a 10-day rainfall. On the 11^th day I rode my bike to work. As I approached the bridge, I saw people leaned over and pointing to something below. I biked slowly. Then dismounted. The sky was splattered with cotton candy clouds. Below was a park and the table and benches were submerged in water. I imagined being submerged in snow. I got back on my bike. I went out for lunch. I got a Honkin’ Huge Burrito. Because it had rained for so many days Pioneer Square was flooded with asses. There was not a single place to sit. I took my burrito back to the break room. I opened my book. The burrito tasted soggy. It was sunny outside. People were happy. 

Tiny Opera
~ for Page Loudon

Telephone rang shoe buckled bicylebicycle clickclickclick crashed I attempted a deep squat my leg skittered out behind me I pulled myself up hanging onto an embarrassing item yelped I’m okay I’m okay to no one tweet tweet sang the goddamn birds meow said the useless orange cat even baby orca pushed her giant head out of the water and giggled (I’m lying about that part) I cursed the garbage truck rumbling by in the valley above those fucking noisy animals my son said you’re too old for this then I pretend murdered him with a switchblade comb and ketchup blood.

The End.

Run it through a filter
to clarify your thoughts

Dark, light, midtone
a muddle we call a garage sale

We slip shadows to each other
across the mismatched table settings

A group of misgivings and sentiments
arrive, hang their jackets on the stool seats

& order double everythings
while you look between the rough-hewn rafters

& your hands, the rough-hewn rafters
& your hands, as though

you’d just put something down
but couldn’t remember what

& the spring light & trilling
of the peepers saturate the area

at the open double door

There are a lot of ways      you can order numbers     There are a lot of ways         numbers get disordered:      clumsy

fingers; thick head      But there is….       so much ringing                                Is that not coming from        the other line

 Maybe you should be asking these questions                         To a doctor         there’s no time for that          there is ringing

then there’s someone’s music

Running interference            Is that Bill singing              through the walls         Coming from speakers

I’m imagining a girl            on roller skates            must be Venice         Was it Venice 

where I ran             into Sommer             Outside some small and crowded café           Was it Venice 

I dreamt about                 as a boy the past and present              get so tangled I know     it’s hard to look

back and              it’s hard to live in        they say to                 move forward

Forward to where              into what         is this about money          its lacking          its needing 

any luck         There’s a call on the line      is it that boy from Chicago        er… there’s no listed number 

um… its unnamed           and when you put the phone       to your ear       it is voiceless 

just ringing        unless        you can         consider the ringing       its own           kinda voice 

there are doors     and windows     day-glo colors misplaced nights     murder in the air

a window in the mind     what kind of game    are you playing at       a murder of colors

a half-remember song fragmented     into mismemory      book with torn pages water damaged

an unanswered line    a mistaken lead   given way to     a great lake    Dan walking along the shoreline

Is this a search    for clues      or a falling into    a rhythm         an invitation for love 

let’s not get ahead of ourselves   there’s dried blood        on the blade           weird photos

distorted faces   enlarged noses     there are some real                  Twilight Zone elements

Bill singing like he believes     in nothing     Bill singing like he believes             in everything

Dads in the park           with their kids      hot dog stench               Sunday sounds

Forget about Chicago    the witness           is compromised    the witness           is all lies

Dead end another dead end        phone ringing       unlisted number

two phones         ringing                    it begins again

Shajareh Tayyebeh
— Elementary girls’ school in Minab, Iran
bombed during “Operation Epic Fury” February 28, 2026

Panic painted gentian arrows on our feet
between the carpal and the sour toe
a molecular transfer of energy the red
thread pulled us all the lure
and the reel pickled our sorrows
count on happiness as revolutionary
because the beast is at the door
carnivorous two headed
the secrets we were promised as dangerous
girls lying low in the tall grass
imagine the animal’s astonishment
finding us swimming there
arms finally let loose from their silks
it was a measure of time
we were not inevitable
violence or salvation
it’s all the same a constant ache
trade these stories like currency
in the land of indulgence
we were too small for fatigue
we craved the beast we were given
we will not be targets
of this horror

I was foolish, wearing jewelry
That was sentimental

In a city of wind tunnels
Thinking I had plenty of time

To get to the hospital
That my late twenties—and late thirties—

Wouldn’t be a series of small ego deaths
That I could make it to the subway

After staying up all night with the baby
Watching both Miss Congenialty movies

Without stumbling over my own feet
Bashing my knee—which still hurts

Even now as I fold onto the tufted rug
To give you one last kiss goodnight

I’m so over it
I was writing this poem
when my then-boyfriend, Useless,
got arrested at a Gulf War protest
in 1991

Steel-toe boots
to the skull
Steel-toe boots
dive off the stage
Steel-toe boots
to the bottom of the fairly slimy pool

You’re so high you’re looking for
the helmet you already have on
your head, visor down
& won’t let me borrow
your books

I wore men’s suits I thrifted
on the east side
with long red hair & lipstick
I’d wear that now too
if no one else did

So over it
So over it
So overcoming it
Upchucking around the globe again
in a malaise of pallid & vicious repetition
Boots to the head
Boots on the ground
What boots go best with this
motheaten suit?

I was fast. Not the fastest, but fast enough. Mr. Ianocone asked me to join the track and field team. I was rail thin and sucked at distances but give me a 50-yard dash and I couldn’t help but show out. My parents wouldn’t allow me to join Track and Field. My father said, Be no part of this world. I wanted to be a part of the world. I wanted to be a part of a team. I wanted to feel wanted. I awkwardly declined. I wasn’t very outgoing, but I knew the boys on the team. They were nice enough. I was embarrassed; I couldn’t tell Mr. Ianocone my parents said no. Instead, I was weird about it. 

A few months later in PE we did the 50-yard dash. It was neck and neck. Joel was fast, but I was faster. Mr. Ianocone said Joel won the race even though I beat him by at least a half-step. During another PE class, I dropped the baton. It was an accident, but Mr. Ianocone took it as sabotage. Called me Butterfingers like it was the dirtiest word. Teachers called you all kinds of names back in the 80s. In the locker room all the boys called me Butterfingers while throwing their sweaty tighty-whities at me. 

Hi again. I thought of you when my lens slickswifted
over a seal. Sitting on a samegray blanket in a boat.
Facing thataway. So maybe it had nofaceatall. One
of those bowlingpinius nightmaricus seals. “Reader
like seals,” I thought, then, “Faceless seal?” because

it was. “Reader like true?” In a shortblink, mind
brushed its image over me, singing that Mamas
and the Papas song, “Faceless seal,/no time to turn
around./I’m sneezing up yer image/as I float on by.”
I was going downstairs to do laundry. So ok, sea:

samegray as seal. Blanket: samegray as sky and sea. ss
Laundry: soon blue then gray then drained again.
“Reader love nature.” True. So I carried faceless
seal in my jaw, smelling, tasting, superimposing
face on seas, skies, laundry, etc. Thinking of you.

April, you thrill
of frilly yellow thangs
& peeps of purple!

You greeny hues
tinkering among the mosses
& the pippities of kinglets

who flash their neon crowns!
You humectant, furling, swollen
stream of snowmelt

& last year’s heartschmerz,
flung open like the barn’s
upper story gaping for hay!

Hey! April! You brill-
iant capillary of sunshine,
let’s flounce!

These early years a nonstop lesson
In life’s most valuable baubles:

Thieved slipper, stained scrunchie
The last fresh lemon cradled between

Itty-bitty goblin hands, eyes agleam
At the very top of the stairs

In my own nightstand drawer, a bowl
of puerile trinkets: shells, crystals, stones

Harvested from a distant Grecian sea
So smooth in my palm they made me cry

Life has a strange way of unfolding right?
HP texts while I shop for yogurt and bread

Hours before evening’s gentle ritual
Of disassembling a tired magpie’s shiny nest