Each year, the centurial black walnut threatens to expire, yet flowers branch by branch, bud by bud, magisterial in its hour.
Wheeling, West Virginia In the hot room, while the finishing men shape glass with pucellas and shears, the snapper boy tongs the gathers—jars, jugs, flasks, and bottles— into the glory hole, that they may reheat, soften, be carried by him to the sweat-slick finishers, their necks and lips to be…
As time went by, he marked that grueling place in his heart as one he loved. A love of the word, even tipple.
how inappropriate the night with all her gowning and un-gowning when turns the day she sheds her mantle and teases sensuous light
On the barest pantry shelf, where preserves crowd before summer jams heavy on us. At the core of the question Mother asks each July: Little girl, when did it get so bad?
I used to pick the trash up out of the ditch on Patterson road in Smiths Grove. It was there I saw him spit out his window, bent can at my feet. As soon as I cleaned up one thing there was a new paper bag, a new bottle.
What they remember is your drowning not your Olympic swimming not those dives those ecstatic surfacings not how you caught what flashed beneath the billows not how you wrote on the waves.
When I think of that beach when I think of where the planes landed when I was a Barra boy when I think of the generation before the planes when I ran, a little girl with braids flying down the strand from my Ma to my Da
Brother, do you remember? All those years ago? How sticky pinecones crunched and crackled when we stole into the silent woods, the moon above like a coin of butter melting into the frosty misty midnight air,
—Maude Masteller Sockman Brown, 1935 Narrow, curved back stairway to the children’s bedrooms Wood darkened by generations of bare feet and sly kittens