Hope was sick in a chair beside me. My shadow was the exhibit, the hypotenuse
of desire and anger. What was in me – what ravage, pulp, what sticky
language? The piñon-scented public servant stood in the rough weather of our
kitchen as wind flared and spit, as I sat silent, knees locked together. In a
specialized study of trauma, there are no shortcuts.
HOMESCHOOLING MOTHER OF 5, ALL THINGS DOMESTIC, MY CRAZY LIFE
poems, and the poet who poems them
(Somewhat) Daily News from the World of Literary Nonfiction
It's always about writing...
Author of Angels & Adultery
Freelance Creative Professional
Writing about reading
Writer * Reader * Editor
The website of fiction writer Anthony Martin
The Year of Living Deeply
Corey Mesler
Just another WordPress.com site
(The poetry blog of Grant Clauser)
Just another WordPress.com site
a roominghouse for the servants of the duende
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