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?
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Stone Curls (and other poems)
Pandemic and all, I’m cutting my grown son’s hair—outside, late on an afternoon in August.
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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…