I have 61 stories published in
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And even now, after so many years, so many coats of institutional whitewash, the corridors still smell of rage. The last thing I remember; running like hell on the last day, trailing
He told me how he lay awake at night to catch shooting stars on his tongue, and washed by waiting till it rained. How once he’d taught a hen to tell the truth, then faked the eggs
Mother licked and slicked his hair back, then in a voice that dripped sugar sent him out to pick blackberries, to get him out from under her feet. He skirted the cliff, his arms flapped
It is mid-afternoon, the time I set aside to write. Outside the winter dawdles, snow-packed clouds are holding back. It should be snowing. I should be writing. The pen hangs,
The winter woods You already knew Were new to us Again you had the edge On me, the calm Of secret knowledge Settled like cupped water In your palm I know wood and water