mama, what happened here?
I ask and ask, already, one might say, grown up Continue reading “Higher | Sunflowers”
They’ll punish you like they did
Alice Fitzpatrick for crunching on
an apple in church, her cold gloat
reduced to half a calf’s lick: a curl
of baby hair tossed into crater lake.
Distilled aqua ersatz, tear-stained
glass in Mary’s corner. Continue reading “A Triptych, Grace Herring”