Author: K. P. F. Holmes

It should be added that the party was a smash, despite the quantity of leftovers. Suburbans beware salmon and cream cheese, the mothers at least.  Chia seeds are the sacred cow for now.  The minivan minds will think up another. The world prefers to burn, that much I’ve seen on TV. We’ve broken everything in…

There seems an apple to her face: the harsh cheeks and shining skin, tincture of red and sunlight in the eyes. They bode a canny mind, a lady prone to others’ misconceptions. Smaller minds perceive a hungry dagger. She  has a tight belt and a heart no one counted on. Admirable, misjudged, uniquely mistaken for…

He’s watching Downton again: the pompous men and petty girls, proud of the nothing they have. All teeth and jowls and starch, thoroughbred characters and thoroughbred actors,  look like birds. Hearts of gold, some.  The gold needs polishing with time— The gold needs scrapping, if we’re talking the now.  A frame can be too heavy…

That blue wolf’s a quiet one. No howls in the night. He needs  none of the pups to follow him down the basement.  Untoward things lie at the bottom. Skulls and gold bars. War medals. Or, a simple past. A last stand  for the old-fashioned crank who thinks taking the album out will yellow the…

They called it diligence, the fourteen-year-olds snorting Adderall. The spelling bee could make or break college apps, but excellence was not flattering. Rhinestones were. That was the look.  Eyes stuck with paraffin and glitter, per the Sephora tutorial, and shorts cut shorter than panties. What a cringe word. Don’t say it—and don’t look! They’re changing…

Coming on two years, it’s like driving down a hill, past the cut lawns and little dogs and the names you had for them. I’ve been happy, moving fast and talking TV and pet peeves to keep others at bay. Honesty means slowing. Mowing the grass. I do it over the sink, cutting my bangs…

I covered my heart, but the swords swung higher, going cool and easy into my ears. I should feel silly for the miscalculation, but they’d slide through my fingers if I tried to block them. In the quiet cone of the kitchen light, when there’s nothing left but a spotted banana, a spatula, a phonebook,…

Lie to me that you’re sun-crazy, that the cross wife wagged your mouth, and you take it all back, with hydration. The sun had you scared of your shadow and mine, eating us feet first before you plucked up the nerve for a kiss. I resent your cowardice.  And mine.  I can see us being…