"Perhaps there is only the demonic journey.
Small beauties by the roadside and
such love as we can muster."
Thin Air of the Knowable
Our Bodies' Unanswered Questions
Lit Mags & Anthologies
My Mother Said
Time Also Went Backwards
Penelope Regrets Her Career Choice
Vespers for Tent City
Our Neighbours' House is On Fire
It’s gone, dawn’s rumble of traffic outside.
This morning a lone car’s thrum fades alongside
the bridge. My building’s waking up; Leah’s grinding coffee.
No elevator whine, no click of doors. We don't go outside.
Across the street, children have escaped, race around in pajamas.
Their mother rounds them up. Shrill voices rise as we pour coffee, decide
on the balcony. Last night the whole neighbourhood clanged
pots and pans, hobnobbed for two minutes, gratified
when someone added a trumpet. And now, the finches are back!
The redhead, bossy fellow, trills and warbles, climbs scales beside
my window. How can such a tiny throat—counterpoint
to sirens keening the sky so brightly-- fill the air outside?
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