Reviewed by Angela Gregory-Dribben I imagine Anna Scotti observing from within a snow globe without the snow but with “the sun…beating glitter from the
for Ash and Reid O Breath, hold us in this moment— in the whirr and grind of this old truck’s gears, her straight-six growl,
Even now, looking at the brick courtyard lit by the late morning sun, I summon feelings of grief. It is tiring, to always carry
Almost all fathers are the same: they want flowers. They tell their daughters to eat flowers for breakfast, and put flowers in their hair.