¿Carmencita?

Those feet, those shadows, that stand of angels shredded in the back bay, rat-straight lines and low dawn skies, toes broken,

I want the dark back, the bloody well of it, my face before the fire or lie alone on the cold stone and find a way to sleep awhile, wake clear and wander. Deborah Digges, “Write a Book a Year” The wrens have returned, a male making his rounds of possible nests. I moved the

What was I doing at fifteen? Face down on the pavement, nostrils tinged with bullet-smoke, the brick-dust falling around us like fresh snow or white chalk, I watched the kid stalking the sidewalk. It was summer in Brooklyn. Nothing ever happens until it happens. That’s how my brother and sister-in-law described their tours at war