Can you read a topographic map?I can’t. But I found myselfat what had to beSoutheast Corner Spring:mouth of a pipe,curved sheets of galvanized metal,hooves imprinted in the mud.Painted Canyon and the Visitor Center must bejust over that ridge,or the next,or the next. Read More in Poetry
“We’ll cut here and here and thenglide it right in,” the guy says, talkingabout the new stove he’s installing.I admire his confidence. Thingsin my world rip, stick, buckle, neverglide—more like a flap, with a hiccup,a lot of oops that don’t matter nowbecause somehow I stumbled my wayinto love that blooms in a little housewith bird... Continue Reading →
about this piece Sign of Life2024 See More in Art...
about this piece Seoul, My Soul2024 See More in Art
Water spilling from the gleaming shower head,cold, making steam rise from my overheated scalp,a moment perhaps unrecognized in the rush to work,but now felt along my spine as an angelic visit.Or the coffee on the tongue with humus rich aromataste of chocolate liquefied into sacramental quaffchugged down without notice millions of times dailybut on this... Continue Reading →
Margaret Anne Kean’s chapbook, Cleaving the Clouds, is a record-keeping, an elegy, and a deep investigation of grief written in response to the loss of her parents, who passed away within a span of 27 days during the COVID pandemic. At the start, the poems remind me of my first...
Were I a pharaohI would take with meinto the next world: these sheetsthat will still hold our smellbecause we have sweated into themtogether for so many yearsthe loose-woven wrap you lovefor how it reflects warmth backdown into rounded shoulders, dry bones,lends you tender protectionthe thin cup my mother usedwhen she sat at the kitchen tableto... Continue Reading →
From my hip to knee, she leans in with gentle pressureyet firm intent, her will steady even amidst dreams,my small black and white dog, warm against me.She looks like a giant furry caterpillar in autumnsnug in a spot out of the wind even though hereon our couch together, there is only unmoving restwhile rain tatters... Continue Reading →
about this piece Lagoon2024 See More in Art...
Today, I want to think about the clean slate of soil in the garden bed, and the old cat stretched to his max on the living room floor. When will I tire of his incalcitrant incontinence, scoop him off the hard wood and drop his fluff into the grass outside? Does he think about this... Continue Reading →
