Out the window, hoarfrost beards the mountain; inside, Buck stove flames ripple, dog snores, brandy flares in throat. Snug in twin armchairs, we dwell in two worlds: your Vikings pillage, slaughter; my plucky English detective scours the village, building her case.
At midnight we seek the lake with no lights in a canoe. . .
Ineed to tell you about pepperoni rolls. But I understand that, as a native West Virginian, I probably have enthusiasm for this dish disproportionate to your knowledge of it, so first I need to explain. A classic pepperoni roll, one from a place like Home Industry Bakery in Clarksburg, West…
Tobacco dry, money and a carnival on the way again, the moon begins her due-west march down the aisle, donning thin clouds as a veil.
I dream gone home about ruts, an old road we don’t use where the rain wash has worn from trails shallow gullies that curve as they twin down the hillside, crushed exposed sandstone, yellow layered,
Named the false mimosa, the locust’s fine leaves droop in sleep, allowing rain to feed growth beneath.
In memory of Martha One winter in the late afternoon my aunt and I took a drive out into the countryside and watched as the sun began to set over icy fallow farm fields its shallow oblique light the very thing she wanted me to see because it was beautiful.…
Across the street from Divine Intervention Auto Repair, behind the Dairy Queen, my mother opened a nail salon named Alimony. The women inside are never my mother’s age.
The dog at the gate was a warning: What was ours, was ours. She was tied there when the gate alone was not enough, the wooden fence disassembled, the hemlocks laid bare across the path removed.
What that song is made of: ethanol, red dirt, throbbing fingers, the biggest porch you ever seen— whose father doesn’t know each word to every kind of blues there ever was?