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She was right about this place, the unforgiving winter months sullen, sunless, bitter, but then spring a dream God has and lets us slumber in
Thistles mock all, growing . . .in a heap of broken glass with last year’s soot.—Genevieve Taggard, “American Farm, 1934” In the moments after she
My brother has come to live with us and how could we know how deliberate his hands would be: at the sink, thawing beans stringy
Here they brought thousands of the hurricane’s dead. Even the dogs knew to stay away, low rumble in their throats, September begun with a lurch
MARCH/APRIL 2013: POETRY by Susanna Childress Tell me snow is falling on the willows now, fat, full, unhurried, for my strawberry-haired nephew sleeps, his body
It’s that time of year when most of us are savoring the last little remembrance of summer and watching the torrent of greens make a
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