a response to ‘The Kiss’ by Gustav Klimt light of late afternoonspills onto us like jars of wildflower honeyaround my anklesflowers form themselvesinto bouquets of calla lily and cosmos, violet and freesiawe kneel as if in pagan prayerknees on...
Two minutes cannot hold them all: and yet we stand and let the quietness speak.
Dispatch sent us to a stone house on Aberdeen Avenue in Westmount, but that’s all we had to go on: an address. “Miss Amara? We’re first responders,” my partner hollered.
Last year I watched the kites ripple into the atmosphere as I placed marigolds out for our great-grandmother Carmen. This year, I am the one being welcomed back.
The slow night watch at la Porte de Montmartre was interrupted by a man in a cape and broad, white-plumed hat ... and a nose for mystery.
Eric watched as almost a dozen boys around the campfire jumped up and down, cheering and whooping and waving their hands in the air.
A rope from the junkyard becomes treasure at the foot of my backyard.
Thursdays, like clockwork, Mother would clean the shop. Mira often watched as her mother took unwound springs and bent gears out into the alley ...
he never admits it, but he hates the name theodorus.
hates the way it tumbles out of lips to
stick in all the wrong places
“The elephants will come back someday.” Gramps chewed on a stick as he stared at the far horizon. The terraformers were hard at work replacing the reddish-purple lumps of native vegetation with the gray-green of earthly sagebrush and...