Kathryn Lester-Bacon

a storm-drummed dock, tongue-swirled scotch, the sea’s salted singe make a clean bed in a white room on a bright hall recede to the point where lightning and horizon crash.

I walk with my niece down the wet cracked pavement, fingers gripped by her miniature fierceness, feet tripping after her intent to leave no petal untouched, no pebble unturned. I remember when snow