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My friend Joseph, in his plaid shirt, old jeans
& slippers, tells me he’s studying Heidegger again.
my wife told me to go fuck myself.
I detested the closed petals, the hidden corollas
folded like a carapace, not letting
the light beam in . . .
At my age
one becomes a bird.
The doctor is grave about my bones,
so empty that a narrow light shines through.
The bathroom window opposite his slammed shut. Allen glanced up just in time to see the whiteness of her flesh before the curtains closed. He resumed his work on the sill, scraping up layers of toxic paint.
When her father died, the house was like a crystal in the hillside. Its windows gleamed against the sun rising out of the clouds, off the sea, and there were other houses, larger, more austere, with furnishings and carpets looking into the depth of that round furnace coming up as though it had wings, out...
The First Man speaks: “You and I are of the same generation—baby boomers. We always had an eye toward the future and grew up in a certain abundance that our parents didn’t have growing up.
Table of Contents, Issue 117
Writers, please note that as of April 16 Confrontation is not accepting any submissions.
The woods spat Thomas into a clearing, and there they were: four men, one standing on the frozen lake, the others huddled around a smoking grill. Muffled reggaeton sounded from a portable radio buried halfway in the snow, antenna gamely perked.
Let me tell you about my precious son, Harry, who at one time occupied the body of a grown man and went to school where he was hailed as brilliant and ingenious by his peers.
I knew Israelia because she and I came from the same little hometown in Florida, a “podunk” place out in the middle of the state, where a truly beautiful and graceful girl like she was really means something to the whole community because they only come around maybe once in a generation.