My niece is as old as my grief. She crawls toward an electrical outlet in one video and open arms in another. I keep
All night she cries out for me. Icebergs rasp her ship’s wooden flanks. Her arms, benumbed, can no longer brace a caving fissure. When
I am searching for the exact spot where Emily leapt over the creek, a tiny wood nymph beneath silverbells and sugar maples, behind her