As he would wake up every morning thinking about the birds, she left him. He would wake up thinking about the birds and the other small animals and the cold. And he would say things about them, the small animals and the biting cold. He wanted to inhabit their small…

It seems virtually certain that Russia will invade Ukraine in the immediate future. The global media is trying to assess this impending horror with the utmost care and an even-toned sangfroid that is mostly a put-on. A hidden panic grows everywhere. The tacit understanding in the softer forms of condemnation…

A winter fly buzzes behind the venetian blinds, distracting me from my laptop peregrinations. How dare it interrupt my nightly pilgrimages to delicious nowheresvilles? When I turn off the ceiling light, it finds my screen. And then I feel the pathos of the creature. It crawls slowly over the words…

My grandfather told me he shouldn’t have walked on the night beach. He told me this when he was dying and he was talking about when he had been a young man. He admitted he had been drunk that night. It was so dark. He said there was no moon…

My mother had resisted telling me who my father was. When I had been younger, she had been able to ply me away from this question with a variety of delicious sops such as ice cream sundaes made to order or a toy airplane that had working propellers and people…

William Keckler

Writer, visual artist. Books include Sanskrit of the Body, which won in the U.S. National Poetry Series (Penguin). https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/532348.

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