Please Lord, Do Not Hunt Me!
8 May 2007
Vol. 7, No. 1
poetry, prose poem
For hope, we blended myths with our known truths. We knew the hair of the dead continued to grow, but did buried babies learn to talk? We grew confused. Am I a horse or a crow? My grandfather was a grave so I am a grave.
To His Nephew
5 May 2007
Vol. 7, No. 1
poetry, prose poem
In my bureau is a matchbox. I am not going to make this easy for you. In the box there are two cloves, a snip of lavender, and a piece of ribbon. Inside the ribbon, a girl walks tiptoe with outstretched arms past the living room. She is my grandmother. In her pocket…