although the nation is done for, /I find new flowers. Donald Revell i. my husband tells me fireflies are dying out on the hill.
Childhood summers were patent leather, were dancing music played above her, were rounded uncles, soft as cushions who’d raise her, squealing, above their shoulders
Larry cuts stone in a cloud of hummingbirds. It is hot. He is patient. The birds are hungry. They zoom around him like animate
Rita and I are Mystery Sisters, buoyant on the porch, taking turns being Little Elk, make-believing we’re savvy. Our game, equal parts Saturday Westerns