Which you won’t/
can’t/never will with your crow-
calling, bloom-cracking,
soul-tapping, house-toppling,
forty-nine years
enter
too young, too gone
The ivy is climbing away
from today but your words
cling
Last winter, two of my closest friends gave birth to baby girls within a week of
each other. I am nearing 30 but lucky enough to still count my circle of
girlfriends from
My familiarity of Marat has always arisen completely from the painting, “The
Death of Marat.”
To me, Marat has been a figure murdered, an image of vulnerability and pain.
Here, the brush of
Perhaps the river, if it wanted to speak would
be deep-voiced, gravel drawled. Perhaps it would
be forgiving as the low fog that scarves
the valley redwoods. Our discretions
mutter – light rain whispering
My great-grandparents lived in a small town in Indiana on an orchard. I
associate them with the smell of apples in summer, with the old floorboards of
their home that would creak as
