With a pulse of cello and scent of cognac,a lingering want as the moon drags tides, like a metronome with fingers.Then—silence—the breath before the fall, like a piccolo whispering a symphony,with a single note.Exhaling the taste of yesterday's tobacco,...

Aftertaste:April Fool’s Day 1973:Georgie was heavy with child. Her breasts were swollen with milk. Her abdomen, fully distended. She slumped on the wicker chair feeling her baby prod her stomach. Her fiancé marvelled at how she pushed herself to...

A slow drift afloat, of sapphire notes, of winsome blues settling in the air holding on to deep tides, endless deep,like a salt-licked pulse.Pouring itself into a glass of dusklike spilled memories through honey, slipping between my fingers, a...