poetry
we are made of dust but I’m not so sure -- our bones, perhaps but our spirits . . . our spirits are made of the stuff of sautéed garlic the hope of rising dough the laughter of bacon frying the tenacity of friendship every morsel of mortality a reminder to remember
poetry
I find myself wishing there were no passive voice (an odd wish, I know) but I don’t care much for a world where things were said mistakes were made damage was done lives were lost as though the mistakes made themselves or the violence happens without perpetrators, death without
poetry
A family is gathering for a meal outside Spokane the daughter is still wearing her soccer uniform the mother is chatting as she passes the potatoes the father is nonverbal, tired trying to engage the dog is waiting for someone to share They will finish their dinners their conversations their