Sisyphus, Mid-Flight, by Leah Bobet
the trouble is: behind him,a crowd of whispers saysyou can, it is of worth, you can.do you not see how sick i amdo you not see what happenedto all the…
the trouble is: behind him,a crowd of whispers saysyou can, it is of worth, you can.do you not see how sick i amdo you not see what happenedto all the…
All the corpse relocations that I’ve been privy to happened at the request of the families, because they wanted to transfer the remains to a different resting place. In one instance, the remains were cremated after being entombed. In another, the deceased was transferred to a new casket—and a body bag, which was generously filled with powdered formaldehyde and odor neutralizers—and taken to the airport.
The frightening thing about Aunt Tae praying was that she never prayed, not anymore—not since Padilla flooded, she always said. Flooded. An absurd word. Flooded means that water moves, that it has to come from somewhere, and most unbelievably, that our town was once dry land. See, Padilla has been underwater for as long I’ve been alive, so that’s not the strangest thing about it.
The strangest thing is the ghosts.
Día de los Muertos is celebrated throughout Mexico and wherever Mexicans living abroad can be found. Normally falling on November 1 and 2, in some regions such as Oaxaca it…
When I pole my boat off the shoals I see her:wavering, rip-step, shadow of arms.I can pierce her with a thought.I trail her off my broad back, I drag her…
The girl watches the forest taking over the street and changing buildings, people, and rubbish into trees, bushes, and animals. The world elongates, darkens, and gains shades of green, brown, and burnt orange. The girl is crouching on a heap of quarry stones near her older brother and his best friend, Sammy, who are trading insults in a game of mchogoano. Unaware that they are changing into trees, the boys rub their hands together, each giving the other maniacal grins, each proud of his scathing cleverness: “You are so black, when a stone is thrown at you, it goes back to the thrower to ask for a torch.”
she’s a princess who romances thorns
wears necklaces of needle-sharp pearls
plucked from her father’s brow
strung on mother’s graying hair
if you try to steal a kiss she will give
you her lips plucked fresh from the stem