by Drew Heuermann
Our hands, interlocked through the night. Doing what we can to keep
our lanterns close. Our bodies, a pair of spent tissues
floating around, too fragile to rush. A religion of inconsequence,
of passing. But what does that mean for everything in my arms?
The last mom-job of Grandma’s body was one squeeze. Almost every
body had a name once, and before they were bodies? Were we Continue reading
