Witness/Time
By Essay Issue 103
Sometimes, to comfort myself, I think of myself as a city, not a woman, but a city that can be rebuilt again.
Read MoreFall
By Poetry Issue 59
This is where I live. This is the house in which I, we, once—this is the small square window that works as a porthole to make the pantry a boat, the leaves water, the lawn chair a skiff. Some late shadows are rowers in breeze. Some toys are anchors. The phrase all this fall fills…
Read MorePears, Unstolen
By Poetry Issue 66
I was stopped on the sidewalk by pears glowing on their tree like antique ornaments with flaking paint, a green metallic shimmer, hinting at yellow, mottled with a few flecks of red. As light flickered over them, they seemed to flutter like candles in the leaves. But no—they were pears, and probably hard, I told…
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