by Laine Derr
My cat kisses finches on the neck, red
feathers masking want, a body finely limp.
I learned burying from my father, animals
killed on country roads, soil rich in blood. Continue reading
by Laine Derr
My cat kisses finches on the neck, red
feathers masking want, a body finely limp.
I learned burying from my father, animals
killed on country roads, soil rich in blood. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Jim Tilley
Filed under Poetry
by John A. Nieves
“How I don’t know what I should do with my hands when I talk to you.
How you don’t know where you should look, so you look at my hands.”
—John K. Samson
It wasn’t always crayons—sometimes chalk or markers, sometimes
just the wish to somehow say. But I pressed hard into paper, each word
Continue reading