by William Heath I remember Aunt Hazel’s two-story wooden farmhouse by the roadside, the flat fields of northwestern Ohio stretching out in all directions until they hit a tree line left on purpose to cut down on the wind. The barns are a short walk from the house, and a rooster commands the area where we…
by Alita Pirkopf In the clean, clean house, all the cleaning wiped away everything that touched me. No fingerprints on glass- topped tables or glass doors that slipped open and slid back. In a glass house almost without breathing, I watched my own master mother (who painted O’Keeffe animal skulls…
by Alita Pirkopf The chrysanthemum blossoms, heavily weighted, barely visible in snow, remind me of castanets held at the end of green-sleeved, graceful arms. Hands, fingers, clashing, clicking hardwood held by silk cord—my father’s magic and manipulation, when I was young, and he brought gifts from Spain.