Explore

You have your apron on under your coat. We’ve got each other.

I stop and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple.

He never stopped reminding me that I was born in Harmony, Georgia.

A bunny the size of a teacup feasts in the clover, ears lit up in salt-pink light.

“The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl.”

No more laughing like the waves. No more ocean of words to drink from.

As a child I wanted to behold the elusive squid, the patience of eels.