So, I’ve just found out I got a story published! Shadowbox Press which specializes in beautiful handmade limited edition books sent out a call for poems and stories to be anthologized in a book called The Musculature of Small Birds, a book devoted entirely to poems and stories with the things that are hope!
My story, “Love Song,” is about a woman named Melissa who works in the maternity ward at a hospital in Amarillo; her job is to ink the newborn’s foot and press its print onto the birth certificate. The story is a letter written by Melissa to a man who was in her college poetry workshop and who fathered her child. He’s moved to New York City where he’s become a fairly well known poet, and she’s been dreaming she gives birth to a bird. The doctors believe the father of the child was a sparrow; the reader is led to believe the father may actually be dead.
Yowza! I hope the story itself isn’t so confusing! I thank the kind editor who accepted it, and also give a shoutout to my old friend Jason Nelson who inspired it by taking me to a bbq restaurant off Old Highway 9 and telling me stories about the end of the world.
by Amy Hosig, my dear friend
Bless these shrimp from Sing Hing
that I am about to eat,
that spent their life, hopefully,
in odd, propulsive motion
and before language.
Oh you little shrimp
died for me,
like the intelligent whale,
able to change you
From the Belgian aesthetician who painted me in warm algae and wrapped me in Saran Wrap:
14. While sipping your liquid-oxygen-infused-water, contract your gluteal muscles. (Heck, do it now! In fact, do it any time you think of it.) Cellulite–and I apologize for typing out such an ugly word–is drawn to flat surfaces. Rounded surfaces receive far less of the unattractive stuff, so rounded bum equals smoother bum equals perhaps a generally happier person though surely I shouldn’t bring happiness into this because, lordy, what kind of a woman equates happiness with glute contractions?
1) Running into the glass-breaker and her mother in a bakery; I am eating a croissant and avoiding their eyes; her mother asks me where the bathroom is.
2) Spiders crawling out of spider veins.
4) My dress missing, the cake unordered, the music not playing, the flowers not blooming.
5) Joe telling me a joke but forgetting the punchline.
6) Dave having heart palpitations.
Some things, though, I’m not sure if I dream, or if my mind just seems to have dreamed.
The little siblings: Madeline, Tommy, Kenny. I imagine them swinging double-dutch ropes, and mom (sweet, sweet mom) yelling out ready, set and then running and jumping in those ropes:
Cinderella, dressed in yellow, went downstairs to kiss her fellow, made a mistake…
7) And snakes, too; sometimes I dream of snakes, but mostly of missing trains, not remembering the track or waiting tables and not remembering the order, of being in the high school play and not remembering the lines, of not remembering it seems…
I think that’s what I fear most: not remembering. If only I knew what it is that I don’t quite remember.