Hollis Kurman

The youngest know. They know boot crunch from tank whir, missile whistle from rocket whine. They can count seconds to boom and brazen light bursts,

Vowels in the trickle of a fountain, chasing mosquitoes over a fake pond: ‘A’, ‘E’, ‘AA’, ‘EE’, ‘EI’, ‘IJ’, ‘UI’… Bueno. De nuevo. The low

We were black and white girls with backyard passages so we              wouldn’t have to go around the block and knock, wouldn’t alert our brothers or

If butterflies could claw deep, draw blood, not just light and flutter, then they would be our conversations, our not touching, anchors as winds steal

A machine detecting dye, the parrypadding into the room where he lies,wordless, feet stilled and arms bound.His glasses have been removed, his pockets emptied.  A

Snow,not the kind that heralds frozen waterways,an eleven-city race on skates, but a changeon the cheek, a white sky smile.Slow mist and snow, gulls glissade

In fits and starts, births and afterbirths,there was blood in the grass that year. Later, she would remember everythingbut the news; adventures need endings. The

There are mornings when the city still smells of chocolate, inchoate, industrial. No one notices. Yet many find themselves suddenly slipping, talking of other gone

And at the end of the day we felt we knew him less. We’d started with objects and foibles gathering dust. The Oriental Lady with