A few months ago, near the end of the summer, we stood chatting over the fence, far in the back by the old shed with the paint peeling from the door, a hoe in your…
Browsing Category Prose, Poetry, and Art
Echocardiography
I lifted my three-year-old daughter, Willa onto my shoulders, and then we continued up the hill to take in the view of the Georgia pines and perhaps spot a deer, or the great-horned owl that…
Betrothal of the Virgins
This artwork appears in our Fall 2013 issue (Vol. 60.1)
Precocious Slow
An excerpt… My mother made love to her mirror, twice a day, morning and evening, every day of her life. Before bedtime, this involved the soft, slow strokes of her fingertips across her face and…
Nebulous Light
The day my mother died I learned that the commonest noun in the English language is time. That morning I sat alone by her bed, stroking her forehead as her eyes fluttered open and closed…