on a line from Amy Leach’s “Things That Are” I have never made a flower, never have I pressed myself through dirt, me as
The vital jolt, the spark of life, the fifth humour still unseen, the pouring of protons across a membrane that somehow leads to twisty
One hundred and fifty years after my stint as a witch, I was reborn the future wife of one of America’s most revered and
Ten years later one of my brothers would be in the ground and the other dead to me, but in the summer of ’96