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Country Lifeexpand_moreFires, always fires after midnight, the sun depending in the purple birches.
A man jostles my stride to the street, no shoulder on which to move.
A photo essay on hope in the wake of the devastating Bosnian War.
Sue Williams tells a pitch-perfect story outloud, about devotion.
The trees were a sign from the devil, a warning of the terror to come.
They tried to kill us, my sisters, mother, and me; I still have the scars.
He was staring at his car like you might a stare at a dog.
There in the trees, swinging from branch to branch, they saw Pete.
The cottage stood as a metaphor for what she wanted out of life.
You and me is as good as anybody else, and maybe a damn sight better.
The flail is raised high, back bent in echo of the boys’ backs.
This itchy voice, this desperate chant, that begs: okay. Okay.
No-Horse sucked his lips, imagined the taste of the white girls’ hips.
He probably should have arrested or at least reported me to someone.
Sitting beside a heap of steaming dung I felt in great poetic form.
We’ve tried, but it seems it is in the stars for us to hate each other.
Recently a man in my town took up residence on the football field.
“Folks need other folks, that’s all I mean. Especially here in the Ohio.”
These are notes that please the great heart of man.
The blood had been soaked up in sawdust—“this is hell.”
Even if he lost her he would never disparage her, never not love her.
Kids interfere with perfection. Wives interfere. Marriage interferes.
The house of our relationship is a fort. Blanket fort. Tree fort.
It was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.
This storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land.
Just before four in the morning, the dog barks, the headlights appear.
Mafia didn’t like me, except for the tickling game. It went like this.
She is eight years old and doesn’t recognize the word divorce.
