Question asked by Marne Wilson A terrible day’s the one we won’t see coming. It doesn’t slap us around; it silences shrill cries of
I wrap my mother’s body in a small blanket. She is light in my arms. Sprawled by a fig tree, my father asks, Are
Fact: I do strike twice. Fact: not one blade of whirling grass can side- step my burst, divergent lightbulbs. I plant my thoughts where