At 42 years old, married and in good health, some doctor sucker punched Ephraim Scott Sommers with a diagnoses of type 1 diabetes, a chronic autoimmune disease that requires constant monitoring: “a half-inch needle which is, right now, buried in my soul and giving me an important but boring reading of my current blood sugar.” The parade of medical equipment and doctor jargon is comical, but the very real threat of dying stains each page of Diabetic Gumdrops. Even with medical insurance and a loving wife, the destructive force of this disease is shown to be awesome and absurd, a war that will likely continue until his death, and this battle requires advanced weaponry: “Dexcom, G-7, Patch, and Sensor…heart pills and vitamins and insulin pens and monitor kits and boxes of glucagon.”… ...continue reading
Lily stood in the bay window of the living room looking out at the street. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and the thumb of each hand tapped the taught muscle of the opposing bicep. She tapped her right foot in perfect timing with her thumbs.
Her son, Henry, stood beside her. He was seven and small for his age, barely able to see over the loropetalems outside the window. He did not have his arms crossed over his chest. He did not tap his thumbs or his foot. Although it couldn’t be guessed from his posture, he was ready to run and throw his arms wide and hug.
Then Malcolm’s Lexus emerged from beyond the Freis’ privet hedge three houses down. It came on swiftly, and then Malcolm braked suddenly, as if almost forgetting that this was his house, and turned into the driveway.… ...continue reading
Thursday, August 30, 1975, Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Get Down” was at #8 on Billboard’s Top 100
Yorkshire’s asphalt dipped down to the new drain grate, before snaking dead end into Tecumseh Bluff. The kids knew the path, knew where to walk to avoid people and animals, and on rainy days to avoid puddles that would soak through their shoes and socks. Teachers would scold them for playing in puddles and classmates would make fun of them for being poor and for being from the westside and for having to walk to school. But the colossus that grew here was matchless in the eyes of west enders and few knew better how to navigate its bypass than the neighborhood kids.
After a half day’s heavy rain, debris would cover the grate, a mixture of maple leaves, pine needles, and sticks sealing it tightly and creating a swirling main of pollen, drowned insects, empty cigarette packs, candy wrappers, and band fliers pulled from windshields along the serpentine path.… ...continue reading
Author’s Note: Spring is my favorite season. This poem is a nod to the first clear, warm evenings when the moon is full, the first flowers are blooming, and all the dead is burned away in the first bonfire of the season.… ...continue reading
Crimson heat rains down on ochre landscapes, the souk stalls spilling out much more vibrant colors: plush pink pillows, yellow bananas, green afghans, orange turbans, and violet roses. Beige and mustard-colored Berber carpets and more flamboyant magic carpets reminiscent of a Scheherazade tale protect the stalls from the elements—and for the right price, you can buy such a “roof” for your foyer or living room or, if you’re really opulent, your palatial outhouse.
But I’m here in this medina quarter for something more muted. My wife’s favorite tagine has stewed its last lamb salona, no thanks to my accidentally cracking it into three pieces, and I must replace it. I don’t visit the souk often. It’s not a place for me. I love the sights and sounds, especially the oud, ney, and bendir, played together or individually, telling the traditional stories or finding space for new tunes.… ...continue reading
I see my buddies lying face down on the linoleum floor, shielding their faces from the pepper-infused crimson sauce splattered everywhere. The cries of young men brought down in the prime of their lives by puddles of hot nacho cheese beneath their feet; the visceral smell of ground beef too damaged to ever be seasoned.
The hours after the lunch rush had been quiet, the summer heat keeping the customers away and lulling us into a false sense of security.
