There’s a hidden mountain roadto a geology camp that localsknow to drive on clear nights,to the lookout point.City lights blink like stars,form a grid, irregular at the edges.We stayed in a cabinthat summer—the last Dad was ok.Sometimes I go back there,to see the world, smaller. Read More in Poetry...

Dad listened to his records with his whole body,lay on his back on the living room floor, knees bent,fingertips perched on his ribs.I felt irritatedwhen I stepped around him,annoyed, as he got swept away.But when the babysitter arrived,I made her thumb through boxesof Dad’s recordsto find the one with the man atop a trainon the... Continue Reading →