1. And already we have strayed into myth. This is heavy on me. All this flatland and the constant tilling. What is romantic about the…
It was the middle of the day and the sun was bearing down as if God had turned up the spotlight to get a better…
Day 30 I am at the sink. Again. Near always. Washing vegetables. Washing dishes. Filling pots. Washing hands. Washing hands. Washing hands. My two-year-old is…
This poem is part of the Great Lakes Review’s Narrative Map project. The bike wobbles as he turns his head to say hello to the girl…