By Phibby Venable All my mother’s words live around here,and I am always placing them in whatever orderI can remember.They hold the door open each morning, and suggestI have a better gratitude and attitude,for being aliveI stretch my eyes all over the sky, I lean upand look over the mountainsMy…
by Cynthia Good Then it sparked into flame, Christmas in the fire pit, a burst three times the size when it stood in the den festooned in bows, the Fraser Fir— a shooting spiral of tangerine light. What should we burn next? you ask. Let’s burn…
by Cynthia Good So long cell tower dish sneaking inthe bedroom window, so longto saying thank you to taxi doorsheld open to slide across sticky seats.So long to dragging our bodies into roomswhere we don’t want to go, into argumentsthat aren’t our own. So long to tryingnot to wake the…