and the whole ride back to the top of the hill in the bed of a pick-up truck, I yearn to call this feeling what others must feel upon returning Home.
Poems
The Vanishing
No, there is no sleeping in this epoch between wildness and encapsulation.
Outside
Eye contact becomes language as lips disappear, leaving only eyebrows over pools of so-much-to-say welling up on the inside. Outside, the Earth breathes. Outside, the hen still clucks in the garden and today, the way the sunlight bounced off the green watering can, her tiny fingers and gaptoothed smile as… OutsideRead more
Mending
Grandma used to snack on sweet onions she kept in her purse,alongside society’s disposables—napkins, bread-bag ties,safety pins she turned into jewelry, or magazine picturesshe framed with bits of lace that I’d hang on my wall,next to the rock-band posters, back in the days when I thought success was measured in… MendingRead more