‘ . . . And what greater calamity
[be]falls . . . than the loss of worship . . .
or , in the first eras , territory , river ,
and sure on that tongue . . . my elder-tongue . . .
There’s a house a half an hour south of town, built of stones my father hauled from down the road in his old Ford Fairlane. He built it for my mother when she asked. A rare man sees the monument … Read More
twenty minutes from the center of the city once rice fields that my grandmother admired each morning whispering to dragonflies in the cup of her palm squint at night and see cold stars tearing away the horizon motorcycles and black … Read More
from here, leaning out beyond their yard. They are fence-prone and rubber-necked. Looking in, maybe. I sense a vulturish curiosity and sink back. Meanwhile, my dad has fallen asleep on the couch. He is darker … Read More
