DiaBLOGue

My mama’s hands

can hold eight eggs 
when she walks from the 
refrigerator to the stove, 
bacon fat popping out 

Storytime

Even now in the stony 
courtyard under withered
vines the characters 

Early Winter

Home from the dance in a howling blizzard. 
The kitchen door blown open. 
A heap of snow swirled onto linoleum. 
I’m entranced at the violence, 

Clean

Creekbottom 
pushes up between our toes 
like mushrooms. 
Summer water