Recollections from an Ex
April 17, 2018mused in several voices to the tune of tinkling cymbals It wasn’t like she didn’t blend right in. In fact, based on the type of clothes she wore, People always figured she was from […]
mused in several voices to the tune of tinkling cymbals It wasn’t like she didn’t blend right in. In fact, based on the type of clothes she wore, People always figured she was from […]
Cupped in your papery palm the rose was like a wound, flowering. Your wife nodded when we brought it. Yes, Papa, yes is pretty. Then she put it in a bowl to float and […]
we were young and war was our way we’d fight in class or after school
To watch a daughter die — One could practice a lifetime And never do it well. The labored hell
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Southern Illinois in sweltering and wet summer. Thunder and the whippoorwill sing strange duets at night. From southwestern deserts to the closest
I drive by a red farmhouse in the setting sun. Orange morning darts through rippled glass. High-glossed linoleum
Ever since the homestead days, when you, The eldest, baked the bread for barefoot boys Flushed from the corn for lunch, the care we knew Was testimony of your oaken poise.
While the organist pumped “Let Us All Press on in the Work of the Lord,” and the chorister napped her arms like a whooping crane, and some sat there