July 23: six weeks of high summer still to go. A heat dome has simmered us in 110 degrees. When it breaks like a fever, we throw the windows open…
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Cumulus: You can’t see the sun — its watery glow tumbles from bellies of clouds and pools on a slice of blacktop. You’re there with your friends, peeling pieces…
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Love Song for My Lemon Hare Green trees, sap green—streaming the interstate and hemming the fields, ladled as if from Constable’s brush, from Manchester to Nantwich, muted, yet golden,…
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I. There was the squirrel my mom killed while in Colorado with my dad, before my brother and I were born. She slowed down to let it cross the…
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The moon is far away, but still it sways the tides Never look at the black sun, my grandmother tells my mother. My mother is a child, and…