Author Archives: José Araguz

  —Christopher, 1974–1995 We’re walking on the interstate at night, in a downpour that leaves us dry Pushing through slashes of lacquered acrylic, pressed back by a wind I can’t feel In the rain, the lamplight slithers strips of light, … Read More

  I’m always rinsing something in the sink. At night, nursing bra unhooked, I press lanolin onto a fingertip. No one will ever take care of me again. Before I leaked tides of you, clear and slippery waters, unmooring, slowly … Read More

  Shipworms were chewing the wood supporting the pier containing Frank Sinatra Park. Small beer, you might say; no beer, I might answer. Soon the pier would be soluble, the phenomenon of its destruction preserved in archives of The New … Read More

  i attention split pretending to listen you follow the scent of your fear     replying as though your mind were not divided for now no one can realize you’re terrified   ii who hasn’t seen buzzards circling overhead & wondered … Read More

  Lost savings, empty storefronts— a window of time but not of opportunity. Somewhere in the future, jobs wait for their workers, directionless and tentatively loyal. We are trying to become the kind of people who can have flings with … Read More

  I don’t remember when the last survivor +of the Ludlow Massacre died. A story online disappeared, and I don’t remember when. I don’t remember the type of shoe +unscripted and airborne the president ducked when visiting Baghdad. Threads of … Read More

  They both move along the path as car headlights on a dark road. She has a face that looks like the first sun on seeing its light reflect off a tree. Her eyebrows paint horizons. The dog walks alongside … Read More

  —after Andrea Read A woman holds a white chicken in the back seat of her car and the wind gusts, throwing the poplars back as if they’ve suffered a shock. I worry the roads are icy. The night my … Read More

  ‘what life I got left, I clawed together’ a world where polar ice melt means more plunder ice inside St. Louis windows children freezing to death in al-Hol in the Red Centre dry riverbeds and a hundred dead horses … Read More

  —for Karim Ennarah Amid November’s raid, the journalists at the office learned to make paper boats to pass the time. Suddenly there were as many boats as people, except not one boat had a name. It is November again. … Read More

  voices clashing lines to an election drafted on the canvas. Mornings here afar covering American night news are cold as Aschbach Walzweiher long, wavering lake’s strands of mist hiding facts, lies prolonged, ghost streaks hovering behind unlawful deaths, before … Read More