the writer’s classroom

In day cast by headlights, shadows stumble over skin — butterfly-thin.

Yesterday my brother comes up to me, paintbrush in hand, eyes mischievous, grabs my wrist twisting gently so my palm lay face-up in his…

I was no more than six when my throat first felt the clench of pressure

Briefly I dwelt upon my mother’s tongue…. as a fantasy kind and intelligent my mirage carries only my features but none of my weaknesses

1. when light lands on valleys it sounds like a powerful gulp

When I was ten and that buttery palm sized resin was placed into my hand, I clutched it gently with my fingers. I wrapped it in cloth