Grace Churchill’s daughter died for the twenty-seventh time.
When I look at my nine year- old son, I see my husband’s face. His square jaw, his chiseled cheekbones, his light brown hair, his delicate, perfectly proportioned nose.
Ignore your brothers and sisters
until you secure your place
in the pouch. Then grow up quickly.
An open hand
The shallow drum
A stony man
in the swallow’s fire.
As air slipsighed,
bent his knee nowhere
Winter is here and I ache.
The embers shift, grow faint.
spread like a string along a pathway
empty silence is nothing of time
Persephone Samaras can’t wait to escape the oppressive heat of the pizza ovens. She’s off to see her cousin Vasili in the hospital, that sterile, air-conditioned sanctuary.
I watched my old man’s face, hoping he wouldn’t notice my chubby fingers creeping toward the volume knob.
Seconds after my mother died, she began work in heaven on a little play titled “Naked in Bed with Eleanor Roosevelt.”