[[bpstrwcotob]]
Braids and the Meaning of Life
As a child, I was in awe of girls with braids. Girls whose hair was set in strictures like Sunday sermons.
I Am in a Room Alone
with the only music of the morning traffic, those who must rise to drive to labor, and a window often curtained and closed, and in winter, the radiator hissing, the kind from another century, the kind you must be careful or it will burn you.
She Replants
The family tree is gnarled and warped. Witch’s bony / knuckles and fingers sprouting from a dark corner of the earth. / It hangs like a curse and blights the lonely apple that grows, / hiding. A thin branch reluctantly bows to its weight.