As a Boy, He Played With Matches
patches of brown grass dotted his yard, smoke rising under the sticky Georgia sun now, as we sit side-by-side on a patched brown couch his fingers brush the... Read more.
Less
you’d never say it: that i deserve less as an autistic woman i speak my mind with a steady voice fingers wound into knots where you can’t see them under the... Read more.
Troubadour
Strings spin from the friction of the bow tension of two ends pulled tight over a thin wooden bridge that bears suspended cords resonant as the strum of blood pulsing... Read more.