In the ruins of the earth twelve hundred saints are biding their time—taking alms from the smoke of gray dawns. The tarantula eats the
Ekphrastic Response to “Southeastern Louisiana” by Beth Aala The space where something is: her mother, watching the kids play or making Thanksgiving dinner just
Where shall I hide my things? —Emily Dickinson The attic: separated for eternity from its twin, the basement, by architects and their congregation, who
Crook-armed acacia bark all split and sedimentary, branches dissolving into green feathers without control of air. Shadow like a snake’s back—all mottle and shift.