i. Summer My mother’s last loveless summer was largely the same as any other. The breeze wedged itself into broken glass and creaked the old house. Cousins replenished the halls’ rusted pictures shaking with their echoing laughs. Aunts unbuttoned shirts, creased into folded chairs to read their books. Sunlight seeped into my mother and my skin as it always had, casting warm, iridescent shades of olive-brown. Summer sagged, drifting in languor. My mother locked the door to take calls; Her...

I have a string.  Don't be fooled by its promising tug It just leads to emptiness  It did not always lead to nothing Once upon a time The...

I find myself with that  Same knot which I have  Grown all too comfortable with You, too, have this knot  I see it when you touch the...