by Jess Earl Mama told me that thunder is just the sound of angels bowling. The angel outside my window doesn’t have hands but maybe it just can’t bowl, like how Katie can’t eat peanut butter. The angel doesn’t look like the ones in Mama’s paintings; it looks like a…
by Bleuzette LaFeir One. Two. Three. Begin: My first breath is thin air. Elevated. Seventy-five-hundred feet. The desert and the mountains. The light? Brilliant, harsh even, yet buffered through creamy cloth. Thinned further by slips of silver smoke that layer through the living room. Thick, earthy scents of meat wave…