by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Rosemary ran her finger through the pile of clipped job announcements and twiddled the index of her atlas. The notices she’d cut from the professional newsletter were printed in blue ink. The notices she’d pinched from The Chronicle of Higher Education were printed in black. Other notices, taken from a free, local paper, were grey on grey newsprint. Together, those bits made a dreary montage of words and aspirations.
One of the cats, who mistook the intent of Rosemary’s finger wiggling, dove. As he lunged, he chirped. Rosemary’s papers jumped, landing near where Rosemary had sprayed enzyme on cat piss. She hadn’t wanted the preschoolers to get their toes dirty.
[keep reading…]
Originally posted 2009-05-14 00:01:08.
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Except for the coccyx, which Jessica, tenaciously, was attempting to root out from under an ottoman, using only her front claws, nothing was left of Maurice Hichkins’ son, Wilson. Astoundingly, Maurice Hichkins was more concerned with his notes than with his pet.
[keep reading…]
Originally posted 2009-01-31 00:03:53.
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
It’s not about hating men,
But about the span between
Moonlight and midnight.
Gravestone roses bloom
Into real assumptions, unless
Drinking, hair dying, and diets
Disquiet enough to rupture monogamous
Minding of sex or jobs.
Healthy children can not happen
While careers’ fears expresses.
Marital disassociations don’t
Offer much improvement.
Plus, ritualized relationships bring
Pain like light.
Breaking such scabs, as
Formed first from faith,
On football camps plates piled
Miles high with steak,
Merits drops of luminosity.
Select dispensed efforts,
Deign to enhance decades.
Yet, stalwarts assuage traditional seasons,
Causing repentance to sit,
Like so many adolescent teeth,
Encased in shiny metal.
Until he slaps back with
“That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
C’est l’amour, n’est pas?
Hot chirping, coers de papier,
Bangles, gin-dashed pomegranate
Juice: debauchees pari passu.
Next door, nuptials pari passu
Picnic: shared ripe pomegranate
Seeds, exchanged coers de papier;
Valentines. C’est l’amour, n’est pas?
