Deborah Slicer

I stand at the kitchen counter sharing cookie crumbs with an ant— one for me, one for you, no, please sir, have two. Listen— an angel overhead is brushing her lap after lunch— wind licks the trees like a rough cat bathing her kittens, dirt stat [...]

Wednesday, west of Sheridan, sky flattens out like a dinner plate,                       distance runs a marathon into Montana, never gets winded, never turns for a backward glance at the Big Horns, wind         undresse [...]

If titmouse wags her song at me again like a scolding finger—you-loco—    I aim to pop her, then lie down among the cows and rusting tractors along the creekside,    frigid, while the bull soliloquizes like widower Macbeth.    For the m [...]