And there you were—the sun, salt-haze,survival vaporized in my blood. Fever humid, Juneweekend in June, I was looking for younot knowing I was looking. What should I call you? An anniversary, a terror, my real life, a window? I offered myself up to the pale field of...
Rakija (Again)My grandmother-in-law likes to tell us the same stories after dinner, the yearsclear as the windows of our glasses, filled again with the firewater made from winemaking’s remains: seeds, stems, and skins. Faint grape fumes wafting mirage-like into our...
The art of loveThe wet finger of Our Lady of Rain taps across the seadown the karst-bright tower blocks, past the cars disappearing in fog.Our one-bedroom flat echoeswith Siouxsie and the Banshees and I leaf through Dad’s paperbackromances and the glossy Erotika:...