- Poetry
In my pocket, three beads of ancient, yellowed bone. Warm—they feel alive. A cockleshell, pierced at the tip; my fingers like its ridges. … Read more >
Keeper of jars filled with gallstones, her own. Keeper of dead / brother’s anklebone, the one he broke that didn’t heal. … Read more >
Exactly eighty-five miles after they pass from Utah into Colorado, Miranda’s father pulls off of CO-135 and takes the exit marked “Monarch Pass. … Read more >
Dog that won’t stop barking and all I can think: I don’t know anything about stars—not what they’re called or how they form, but how … Read more >