After Sylvia Plath The bushes are laden, draw my blood with their thorns. To find sweetness or at least some nourishment, Find sweetness before
Somehow the fireflies still emerged that summer, still hovered and would alight, gently curious, on his outstretched hands—they felt soft as a tiny purr,
I’m only a little obsessed with snakes, sharks, and alligators, probably because they’re strong, probably because they scare people. I never saw a live
It’s only a matter of time, said the unidentified guest, brown bands coiled, chin lifted, as if to strike a pose. I never