I’m looking in from the road on a misty night at the Cape house I grew up in. It's half past five in the morning. The ancient white farmhouse, nearly as old as the country itself, stands renovated by its new owners. I can see the glow of the kitchen windows on the tall … Continue reading A Dreaming at the Tulip Hotel
Your letter in the mail is the overdone romantic comedy played repeatedly on the Betamax player of my brain. I keep rewinding and repeating the moments, until the wow and flutter distort the memory of when I first pulled apart the glued security seal. In manufactured magnetic static, what you wrote would be the opposite … Continue reading Betamax
When I think of my younger brother, I picture him when he was just a little kid, no more than ten or eleven years old. Back then, he had long straight blonde hair and a gentle round face with defined dimples when he smiled, which was often, even when he was trying not to. Always, … Continue reading Spirit Reports Chapter 4: Cooper
Somewhere, you're playing board games on the coffee table with the dual innocence where we once were as children, but now we're soiled skin. There’s too much baggage in me and my brother's bedrooms. So you start anew at six and seven years old. These are the benefits of skipping the younger years. While you're at it, … Continue reading I Waterlogged the Electric Kettle
It was 11:15 at night, fifteen minutes past visiting hours, but the guard at the front desk let me in anyway. I’d been on the road for three and a half hour. In half an hour I would be over the Bourne Bridge and home back on Cape Cod. But I stopped just before the … Continue reading Job 19:25
In beeswax leather, and in morning frost, I can find you still. Here, in the garden, beside the snow drifts that look like the sight of some ancient avalanche, where we lost three skiers last winter. I am waiting with a steaming mug of something cowardly. In Woods Hole, by the bakery that my grandmother … Continue reading Ode to Steadman
From this vantage, I see you of so missed childhoods, of the white canvas sails of Wild Harbor's rocking vessels. You would have painted her with watercolor on thick paper, and I with my pencil. Where the Knob extends out onto the sea, it is covered only by the sky and the flickering trail of … Continue reading To a Man With a Pipe, Unused for Years
Ryan Shockey Davis 