The Congo – Vachel Lindsay Drowsy Oregon drizzle fogs classroom windows as Arnold slinks to the back for a morning nap and Sandra’s crinoline leg-brushes the hot guy, as she sashays through the jungle of desks and giggles,...
Read MoreJoe has a penchant for disappearing. This makes the employees at the places he frequents in Roscommon uneasy. He has no family and is nearing his mid-eighties. More paranoid people fear he’s tripped over his monstrously furry...
Read MoreAs I sit in a café not far from home, A divided nation sharing one room. In a world that lets skin color define us, My heart grieves for those who would divide us. What I see are faces — unburdened by borders. What I hear are...
Read MoreWhat is honey? Ask young, ask old. What is honey, if not the bee’s gold? But honey is never something so simple. It is the full moon on an October night. The sudden blessing of empty space on a crowded flight. It is warm sand...
Read MoreThere comes a moment when even the strongest frame begins to confess. After enough pressure, enough hidden fractures, the beams begin to bow, the foundation shifts — first slightly, then all at once. You can brace the walls,...
Read MoreMona stood behind the linoleum-covered counter cutting the strawberry rhubarb pie into eight perfect wedges that reminded her of moist linen. It was yesterday’s pie and just beginning to shift its color from tired dusty rose to...
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My ancestors prayed their faithful hearts out in a little shul in the Steppes. Prayed to their god of gods in a language as old as the civilization they hoped their prayers might heal. And still it snowed. Snow over the roof and...
Read MoreI wake long before dawn. How is it only bad habits grow old? Icy windows groan, and it is almost as cold inside as out. A few lights flicker on in this tiny town we once made prosper— small needs ministered by a cluster of shops...
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