Review by Donna Vorreyer “the heart would rather be left alone in its cavity, just the heart and its pericardium, alone, multilayered…” In The
When we talk about failure, I know there’s a daughter, a son, a banner of damp hills and each door to a farmhouse well-proportioned.
To dust, I think and can’t stop thinking. Orchid bulb, blue bonnet— was I, like other things that bud from the earth, born with
the first time you open the baobab trunk by yourself you don’t remember what to look for in snaps of dry wood your ivory