by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
by Eileen Hennessy As to the question of when things took a turn: Maybe that summer when I was edgy, the luminous nights went cobalt blue, the caterpillars stripped the trees of every leaf, leaving me to count the branch-shadows trembling in the crabgrass yard. Since then, closer every day,…