Little Answered Prayers
I’ve always yearned for clarity.
I’ve always yearned for clarity.
“Does the basement bedroom still hold the amber scent of pipe smoke?”
His twig-thin waist cannot support his bulging, leafy muscles.
I can’t remember the last time I bought meat at the grocery store.
It is growing, the poem, quick as trees.
“Um, did my…husband…put these here?”
We begin the same way.
I identify my mugs by a familiar stain around their edges.
It’s safe to say they’re well aware of the power of the stars.
I would have inhaled a rosemary salt bagel with my iced vanilla latte this morning.