by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
by Andi Garrison (This poem contains domestic abuse.) Maybe one dayyour bruises won’t burn my skin.Promises you left behindwon’t hurt time and time again. Maybe one dayvivid memories will fade.The only scars left herewill be the marks from my blade. Maybe one daymy reflection won’t break my heart.With every passing…