Nov 08
The language of flowers I think of tonight’s Thai food restaurant, and the lemongrass soup. Now it’s nearly midnight. I forgot roses in the back seat of my car from a nice man who took me to dinner and went home. Instead, I reflect on the language I share with another, of syllables and metaphors …
Oct 28
My father’s hands I did not know my father well— or rather, I knew him as well as he wanted to be known. I have his body, especially my hands: a smaller white replica of his large cocoa hands, my fingers like his, measured and tapered. The exact shape and proportions. The exact expressions and …
Sep 18
Beaver County Auction In Monaca, notices are taped four or five deep on the screen doors. Grass, knee-high, creeps up the leg. I watch for poison ivy and dog poop—peer through broken panes of glass for signs of life. I take pictures, report my observations, tell my investors what I find unless there’s a sign …
Sep 10
Thoughts of a half-dead woman Since I was twenty-nine doctors have been telling me I am nearly dead. There’s a strange freedom in being a half-dead woman. Risks are not measured by what is lost— but whom. Regrets are not what I failed— but what I didn’t say. I remember the name of the man …
