It was the third day of summer when they told you that your mother and father weren’t coming back. As you stood in the front yard, watching the police cars roll down the street, imagining that they would stop before the house, or after it, that they had come for someone else, and realizing in the same second that they had in fact come for you, and only you, you curled your bare toes into the grass, inhaled the salty tang of your sweat, and stared blindly into the heat. Continue reading
I open my mailbox to find three postcards. One blue, one green, and one the color of stones touched by melting snow. No name, no postmark. Just little pen-and-ink drawings, light and tenuous, of the places they must have been. The drawings don’t resemble any places I’ve ever seen, in pictures or in real life. Maybe they’re drawings of places beyond this earth. Continue reading
As I lay with my love, feeling with my fingertips the warmth of his bones beneath his skin and caressing with my lips the invisible lines of his face, I thought of a poem. If I had opened my mouth and let the words fall from my tongue, this is what my love would have heard: Continue reading
Inspired by the heroic flowers of Hilda Doolittle’s Sea Garden poems, and especially the little Sea Violet.
We blinked away the salt that flew into our eyes, faltered in the wind that tore at our dresses. Ankle-deep in sand we stood, sand like snow, the dust of February. We stood – no, swayed – white violets, fragile, fluttering. Continue reading