My hands fold and unfold all night, packing until dawn. It’s a ritual— I fill the trunk and the work is undone. Her insults
my mother outstretches in the garden with a thumb through hardened dirt. i study her softness tracing leaflines painted deep into her temples. i
Reviewed by Susan Azar Porterfield “I make no excuses…. I’m a writer./I can’t help but tell you how it was….” These lines appear in