Shall I surround you with uncles, with men from above the creek from which we come, while we shout from painted faces and you stand stock still beneath the noise and dark?
Stone Curls (and other poems)
Pandemic and all, I’m cutting my grown son’s hair—outside, late on an afternoon in August.
Let Kari Float Down
I drive to the grocery store for some butter and on the way I remember not to think about her. It’s easy most days because I have made it so that she is under the surface…