After “Fog” by Ruth Madievsky slinking its way across screens, grain slowly swallowing the light. Static over skin, the shiver carrying a cold rush
She tells again how we’d put on Sunday school clothes and walk into town, crossing railroad tracks that stitched a black seam next to
It is a sin to pray for our dead, my mother said, your grandpa, aunt, sister, they’re no longer your concern. I learned what