May 2021 Writing

Things have a Way of Mushrooming

Things have a Way of Mushrooming, or   Lives falter from birth like keystones crumbling from the burden.   My great-nephew Jack strums his guitar, nervously glances around his Dad’s living room, then lowers his blue eyes that always seems as if they have not yet...

Corseted

Margaret ‘s fingers quivered as she freed the twine from William’s wax seal and loosened the plain brown paper from the gift. The contents of this package would communicate much, as during the two years he’d been overseas she’d worried his intentions may have shifted....

In Remembrance of Lost Shelter

It was not the same, the two bedrooms in the house. Her first– warm with maple floors, walls pale pink like the inside of a conk shell contrasting with the view from the window that looked out at an apple tree and spring daffodils, the desk built just for her where...

Passage: Steps along the path

Nine Sandhill Cranes slow-step across a grainfield barely planted, striking to witness even at a quarter mile, the high stepping birds look like slanted saucers, three toothpicks outward, a leg lifts making the knee joint visible, head on the long neck articulates...

Phylogeny

Phylogeny That spring the bees followed my mother—a swarm of them, hovering around her head, sometimes stinging her bare arms and shoulders. I was eleven. Or twelve. I hated myself. And my ginger hair. I hated that my mother had attracted so many bees—she was...

How Would It Feel if I Go?

How would it feel to change the sheets on a bed no one sleeps in but me? Would I spend more or less time on the corners? Maybe the tuck allowance won’t matter when I’m the only one tugging the linen under my chin to block the cool breeze from the ceiling fan or...

The Arc of the Brush

I’ve chosen the toothbrush or the toothbrush has chosen me as totem. Not this specific blue brush, which is six months from the package, firmly in the middle of a short life. I’ve seen futures read from thrown seashells, tasseographic tea leaves or coffee grounds...

Migratory History

Your cypress piroque tumbles across the sheetflow how we forget we are part river always in motion beneath our feet I have only poor boots, my ankles swamped and sucking toward progress. How we stranded ourselves, hurtling toward the wind-battered banks The sun...

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