tiptoes like grief up the stairs of summer’s hot spine, witnessing autumn’s addiction to color, like mysterious gestures from a preacher’s hand training the young to worship the sky by leaving the body behind. In the story they...
The bird soft with life in the strawberry patch, barely feathered, size of my cupped hands, the hymn in it dying. Margaret Finley D’Imperio, cake burner, stoop sitter, Easter basket builder, grandmother, when I was nine. The...
Hands on my widening hips, I watched Neal stretch the dead deer over the tailgate of Daddy’s truck. Vultures caught the scent and circled overhead, casting shadows around the truck. Neal looked up to acknowledge the scavengers...
“Photography helps me look at the world in a more creative way.
It expresses me in ways I cannot write down for people”
-Tyre Nichols
