Currency
Like the poem’s subject, “Currency” lulls the reader into a false sense of comfort.
Like the poem’s subject, “Currency” lulls the reader into a false sense of comfort.
Like the poem’s subject, “Currency” lulls the reader into a false sense of comfort.
Like the poem’s subject, “Currency” lulls the reader into a false sense of comfort.
Here, the fog horns seem to multiply,/clocks and bells grieve louder./Strange how I never noticed them before.
Returning Home in Winter Read More »
Here, the fog horns seem to multiply,/clocks and bells grieve louder./Strange how I never noticed them before.
After my mother died, I looked at a photo where she had moved into assisted living from the ER. Her oxygen tube in her nose, two small children standing on each side. Her hands around their hands pulled tightly to her chest, the chorus of knuckles still housed, white like stones, soon to be freed, soon to be splashing like horses.
“Obit,” by Victoria Chang Read More »
After my mother died, I looked at a photo where she had moved into assisted living from the ER. Her oxygen tube in her nose, two small children standing on each side. Her hands around their hands pulled tightly to her chest, the chorus of knuckles still housed, white like stones, soon to be freed, soon to be splashing like horses.