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The number 25 double-decker bus threads its way through the narrow two-lane streets. Coughing and burping without a hint of embarrassment, it carries us from the train station, with its cheerful round clockface and neat front of red brick, over the weepin
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I’m no expert, but to me it looked human.
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Sula tries to bring a bit of the magic back with her. She carefully tucks some into her suitcase between the Union Jack knee-high socks for her sister and souvenir Big Ben T-shirt for her mother. She braids some into her hair.
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when women’s hair shrinks into tight curly balls and sits on top of their heads like scrunches of wool, blowing in the wind, hanging from the mouths of recently shot deer.
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Madison was not stupid, just uncultured. She knew nothing of England, but decided to travel from New York to Warwickshire to see Shakespeare's grave. She hoped to capture some sort of magic from seeing the playwright's tomb...
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The photograph has no date,but these are my long-ago kin,ancestors just before the boat,six stone-faced on the English shore,sepia on cardstock under glassstill clear in severe, dark clothesexcept one who has been markedout, maybe with black wax,which runs to the bottom…
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Wonderful When his mother was a little girl, her father would braid her hair until it was exactly right. When she asked him how it looked, he always said,…
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When you live in a place a long time, sometimes you love it and then you hate it. But get enough years down the track and you don’t even notice it anymore. That’s because it’s not out there anymore, it’s wormed its way into you, shaped you, the grey mush
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Wounded with driven masonry nails
And medallions of swift nests clinging high
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Wooden piers, sour local beers
Sodium smears on aquariums, damaged
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