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Stories

Poem of the Week
Mild nights would have us out of doors—at their opening I am rapt.
Poem of the Week
I have a maple in the yard and from time to time all is distant.
Poem of the Week
Salve, salve, Regina. As the song ends, he folds into the fabric seat.
Poem of the Week
Sometimes you weren’t a good daughter, the mother says.
Poetry
Ink to paper, she is inventory, has a price tag. A piece to catalog.
Poem of the Week
As our friendship declined into torture, the prairie grew hotter.
Poem of the Week
She’s coming back, her arms full of the flowers I gave her once a year.
Poem of the Week
The dead men don’t look like themselves or anybody else.
Poem of the Week
How bright and eager they appear, how ready to get started.
Poem of the Week
Men can’t sense like that. Or won’t. Even a father don’t dare get that close.
Poem of the Week
It doesn’t matter who he is. I don’t think about him much anymore.
Poetry Contest Winners
through the trees, breathless, the grouse leads us steady as a rope.
Poetry
About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters.
Poetry
Some days it seems like enough to look in the glass for glazed relief.
Poetry Contest Winners
I watched to see how the others lived, not knowing I was the Other.
Poem of the Week
The horse is in the air, her legs withdrawn, a diamond shape.
Poetry
These days I watch the world go by and do not breathe life into it.
Poem of the Week
I believe you get to see a sunset once. Death, well, I’ve lost count.
Poem of the Week
Grant had a lot of buttons on that coat—when he wore it.
Poetry
My daughter is learning how much guessing is in motherhood.
Poem of the Week
In all the faded retellings of that night, there’s a lot he left out.
Poem of the Week
Then came “the sea of trouble” as he crumpled his bank statement.
Poetry
I take the box against my chest like a portal to my father’s heart
Poem of the Week
They’re still there since they never grew old. The story is never finished.
Poetry Contest Winners
There are parts of a man that are born again with each of his daughters.
Poetry
I keep dripping milk until I’m sitting in a pool of it, sticky, white. I can’t move.
Poetry
She was so happy they were going to save her from the city of Dallas.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
Even Medusa was beautiful once, before the sea, snakes, stone. Any chimera is regal if you turn a certain way. Even Medusa was beautiful.
Poem of the Week
My shadow is cast by the paleness of a certain star.
Poetry
It ends with a flourish like smashing a glass in the fireplace.