by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
by Maggie Swofford We watchedthe flowersfold underthe summersun—105°windchill—we lookedout my bed-room window. I baked andcaked mymakeup on bythe windowsillonly to haveit drip off. The flowervase toreoff itsstandduring aviolentstorm,and wethrew ourlaundryat eachother asnights grewdim andhot. The nextday, everyday, we’dcross ourlegs andfoldthe wrinkledfabric backinto somethingwe couldwear.