I wanted to write you a letter, my love,To tell you of how I’ve longed to see you.This yearning is a lot deeper than I would want.
I wanted to write you a letter, my love,To take you back to our past,When our legs would…
YYou’re eleven when you start running, one week after your mom’s funeral. Your dad has been sober for six days. Last night you watched him pour the last Jack Daniel’s down the drain. Later, in bed, you pretended not to hear the glass breaking.
Each door hidesa secret shame,a personalhorror.
To Sarah, the politician’s wife, whose love poem endedor continued in a straitjacket: tucked away in crevices ofclassrooms you never saw, we read your story asyoung girls ahead of strange…
my mother calls meone day, whilst I chasethe shape-shifting scars alongmy…