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Listen to a reading of “Time the Heart Beats” by Peter Colwell. The Navy reps were robots, mechanically shuffling in front of the flag. They played “Taps.” People cried. They fired a couple volleys from M1 rifles. They folded the flag and handed it to the widow. They thanked her for his service—World War II, Korea. They left. Then a priest, with an unbuttoned white collar and a short-sleeved shirt, approached the cement box containing the ashes. He had a head of white hair and moved like it hurt. He held a booklet but rarely looked at it, not 
Listen to a reading of “Baring” by Hananah Zaheer. When her husband of twenty years refused to sleep with her, she understood. It was the sort of thing she expected from marriage. But when her boyfriend picked up his clothes and left her naked on the guestroom bed, she was concerned. When he cited discomfort as the reason, she assumed it had to do with her form—and decided to change it. The next morning, she stood naked in front of the mirror, studying herself from all sides. Her breasts were small but firm, having been spared the rigors of breastfeeding. 
Listen to a reading of “Speed Ramp” by Gordon Highland. The BB Man was taking aim at that pesky monkey again. That’s what ten-year-old Namesh calls the weathered geezer, because of the air pistol that flies from his waistband at the first sign of annoyance, whether the trespasser is animal or man. No morsel of food would be poached on his watch. Infrequent meals aside, the shack holds nothing of value, anyway, nor does its curtain offer much sanctuary from the elements: natural or criminal. So poverty-stricken is the railroad town, “even Buddhists are driven to larceny,” the man slurred 
The Way Home It was a strange, dilapidated city that looked a lot like Bucharest, but everyone spoke English. I was trying to find my way home, to find the subway entrance, or a bus stop. You picked me up and drove through rusty rail yards, along mountains of dirt, mangled metal, and machinery parts. I was cold. You gave me your jacket and a poetry book about salamanders. I thought you wanted to save me, but you only wanted to teach me a lesson. Poetry doesn’t save anyone, you said. It only messes with your head. On A Clear 
The birthday card, sent anonymously, was altered to read Deathday, his cousin’s name written below a cluster of balloons. They’d never met—the family rifted irreparably during their adolescence, in spite of their grandmother’s unheeded dying wish that the boys grow up kin. It wasn’t to be: From a clotted throat, she whispered, “I’m coming, George,” (a family mystery, her husband’s name had been Clifford) then died. The boys never met. As Johan considered the message, Ed from accounting leaned into the cubicle. “I got one of those,” he said. Johan held up the card. “One of » Continue reading Deathday and the Next Day by Steve Danziger… There was a young soldier sitting at the bar, in those digital-print fatigues, and people were buying him drinks as fast as he could put them away. I watched him down five ales before I approached. Did I look good? I had my push-up bra and a blue wraparound dress. My last boyfriend taught me that, if you have all the signs of looking good, it doesn’t matter if you really do or not. “Are you supposed to be drinking like that?” I asked him. He ignored me. “Where are you headed?” I said. “Afghanistan?” “Yeah,” 
It was the summer the neighbor girl got her boobs, and also the summer I stole two flightless ducks from the blind gypsies that owned the petting zoo. When people can’t see you and you take what’s theirs, it’s just a lucky catch—hands in the dark, hoping to unhook a bra, but past that no idea of what to do. Kenny and I took the ducks out back and shot at them with a BB gun, decorated them like royalty with pellets. It was the summer my classmates said a mountain panther was on the prowl, the summer a curfew 
[Confetti] All the people I loved were made of paper. Because of this I could write on their arms and faces and what I wrote would stay. On Dad’s face I wrote MONEY. Then I folded my brother into a tight square and flushed him down the toilet. I was not of paper, and in the beginning was happy for this. But time went on and I felt left out. There was a day Mom was coloring Dad’s arms dark brown because he had always wanted to be Latino, and I knew if she did the same to me it 
Listen to a reading of “Enola Gay” by Glenn Shaheen. My favorite World War II plane was the P-51 Mustang, although I was also partial to the Grumman F4F Hellcat. It was blockier, and the Navy planes weren’t as agile, but I always liked the squarish cockpit. Becky liked it when I got enthusiastic about these things so when she heard about the Hiroshima anniversary exhibit at the Smithsonian she bought us tickets. I didn’t like bombers much, but Enola Gay was the bomber, probably the most famous plane ever. Certainly the most notorious. We went and just kind of |
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