April hides in a wing where a duck tucks his green head, mourning’s night long still and you haven’t felt yet what sun can
April hides in a wing where a duck tucks his green head, mourning’s night long still and you haven’t felt yet what sun can
Ancilla, the Latin word for maidservant, gives this collection its title, but Erin Murphy gives it a swerve, a turn, when she quotes Nabokov
By two o’clock the snowstorm had begun its diagonal attack on windows overlooking East 7th. Inside, low hum of the fridge. Hard to tell
