Last season’s sharp pecan casings littered the lawn. I wished the wind would pick up a little. The air was superheated, and dry as a splintered post. Jules and I moved the trampoline into the shade. Wisteria vines draped the fence, smelling like clean laundry on a line. We clambered onto the cool mesh and surrendered our bodies to its embrace. Clouds drifted miles above, where wind did thrive. I closed my eyes, folded my arms behind my head, and listened as my neighbors entertained noisy lunch guests. A Sweetgum seed fell from the canopy above. I cracked a lid, wincing as it collided with my leg and bounced. It felt like a clear message.
One of the neighbors made a joke. I caught the clinking of glasses. Jules grew bored of almost napping and stood, dipping her knee toward the ground for a slight bounce. Its vibrations traveled and I rolled with the motion, rising. We fell into our jumping routine naturally. We had recently become used to one another. The coiled, rusted springs creaked with each relief of pressure. I could smell sausages grilling, or steaks; some staple of an Oklahoma meal.
I had been recently practicing the art of the nonchalant front flip, and my results had not been disappointing. With force, I could get some air. It wasn’t easy to balance our physical masses, since we were different heights and weights, but I could estimate alright. Our trouble was, we didn’t clearly communicate. As I flew up and down, chattering about flip dynamics, Jules’ eyes began to wander toward the alley. A truck rolled over the pothole-ridden asphalt, dragging a heavy cloud of dust behind it.
Just when I required her attention, her effort, her bounce- my sister was distracted. I had already committed to the decision, and was mid-jump. I had no choice but to tuck and roll, as I would for any spectacular flip. Air rushed by my ears and the world slowed. I realized a horrifying situation had unfolded; I was a projectile with no self-control. My eyes had closed again, out of fear instead of tranquility. The springs creaked loudly. As I landed, my wrist struck the bar, ringing out a high-pitched clang. It wasn’t enough, I flew farther. My face buried hard into grass and pecan trimmings. The scent of blood filled my nose, then the taste filled my mouth. Julie was calling out, checking to see if I still had my marbles. I gave a quick thumbs-up, head still ringing like a bell. The truck’s dust had infiltrated the yard, and it was somehow in my eyes. Every sensation was grit and pain.
She helped me into the house, holding back the ornery wooden door. The AC helped to condense my adrenaline. A glass of cold water was placed before me. My feet were lifted. I had assumed paralysis, as all us hypochondriacs do; and, in a way, I was paralyzed. An hour or two was my estimated recovery time (actually about three days), and Jules was unrelenting.
“Want to go jump?”

Prompt: #6, a thrilling or anguishing event from childhood.

Government Property

Our laylow was his idea.

Visibility, check.

Seclusion, check.

Sweat dripped from truck men

In obscurity across the creek.

Docile, preoccupied,

Hefting with bitter resolve.

Fear fueled my fervent glances,

Losing light to rotation.

Every passing traveler, a warning.

Billy’s wide hands stayed steady,

Aiding inevitable ascent.

It was a simple setup.

The device glowed, full of sun

Ladies first, so it was mine –

Mountains of fingers stretch

Toward, away from, into

Caricatures of fragile faces

Arcs, cerulean lasers

Lines of action break and reform

Branches are electric vines

The creek whispers secret ballads

Gasp and clutch at awareness

Where’s the water?

Parasites devour us

Closed eyes grant no escape

Fabric is too textured

Ensembles of geometric fruit

Infiltrate once-private mental cabinets

Hexagon apples, triangle grapes

Swirling nebula cast out roots

Latch onto exposed skeleton

Sound is sight is smell is touch

Who? Where? Doesn’t matter

Neon leaves spiral, not aimless

Each tree, an instrument

Capable of creating intricate

Sensory lineages

“Is it too warm?”


It was concrete in my mouth.

I began to gather objects,

Fumble for a cigarette.

We had come with so much.

Bedtime Prayer

Bedtime Prayer

You tuck us in every night,
gently kiss our foreheads,
but after you slowly close the door,
we are left to face the nightmares.

“Now you lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
Father, unto thee I pray,
Thou hast guarded me all day”

I hear the light rain
outside my window,
not even loud enough
for the pitter patter.

A low hum.
He hears in the quiet
the whimpers of those
who need a gentle hand.
Where is He who sees all,
hears all, and knows all.

“Safe I am while in thy sight,
Safely let me sleep tonight
Keep me every in thy sight;
So to all I say good night.”

The Remnant

The Remnant

Everyone is an artist—
each generation starts out as a blank canvas.

My generation paints a beach.
We are the footprints in the sand:
outstretched toes reaching for firm ground,
longing for purpose,
desiring guidance.

I am a grain of sand—a remnant
My generation walks close to the ocean,
the rushing water reaches out,
its fingertips touching some footprints,
and grasping others back to the dark blue abyss.

Everyone is given their own brush,
able to paint their own sand;
able to become,
a remnant