I feel sorry for words trappedin the boxes of their meanings.Abattoir sounds so nice Iconfuse it with boudoir.Why can’t abattoir meanboudoir?I was the only one who saw my grandmotherread Barbara Cartland paperbacks. No onebelieved me because she culled and pluckedchickens, rototilled and cultivated gardenbeds, steam pressed sheets, sewed her ownclothes, and cracked her fingersraising shed... Continue Reading →

Tropical Storm Irma uprooted the backyardalligatorwood, which was too bad—the tree had challenged the Cliffs of Moherto see who could last longest.I am sorry I never grew my armslong enough to wrap aroundits deep-ridged trunk.The Georgia-red mud made the root base—wider than I’m tall—ugly as a monster’s mawdrooling the rain’s dregs.I doubt the skeletonit pulled... Continue Reading →