I am a woman and I speak.
I am a woman with lines on her face and I speak.
I am a woman with lines on her face and scars on her belly and I speak
with the voice of a mother
I said, a mother Continue reading “Jackson, Two Poems”
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”