Years after your death a magazine emailed: “We want you back, Viola.” Today, a little morning rain. You told me before you
Years after your death a magazine emailed: “We want you back, Viola.” Today, a little morning rain. You told me before you
In your sailor hat and peacoat, you cross the asphalt and see what you thought was your home is an old wooden
I give up on wrestling my hair into a limp, submissive, dead-straight existence, tell my mother—Just cut it all off, trying to
On her 63rd birthday, Annie Edson Taylor became the first person to survive a barrel ride over Niagara Falls. When asked, she
two bodies resting two bodies at rest, faces to the light, all internal movement like plants a floral type of narcissism or,
I whistle when I drive my car—”Hava Nagila,” “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” songs my friend Jackie’s cockatoo calms to, bobs his
Pure as stars swimming through wet winter sky, swallowing the cold until indistinguishable like fish of the deep swallowing their young. Say
It was mid-summer, 1972, when I was 12 years old, that my parents sold our small row home on Clarion Street in
The boys drown in the pond on Myrtle Dag’s property. Windmills, the two of them, arms and rocks and driftwood and pinecones
When we first moved to Bellaire, my mom thought that my soon-to-be stepsister Brooke and I were eating “healthy” to get “bridesmaid
