The Saints lost.
The full Wolf moon rose so close you could touch, it but it burst a vessel and bled red.
The little boy, thinking about the 5 acts of kindness he has been commissioned to do today on Martin Luther King Day, drew a picture of the tents beneath the interstate on Claiborne Avenue that he drives past in his city where “the people have no homes.”
This is a voodoo daffodil bulb drying in the hidden chambers of the Morris Ice Company, which my family sold at the end of 2018.
A small press loved The Bone Trench enough to say “We are fans,” and even though it didn’t fit their list, they recommended other, subversive presses—perhaps I misperceive my writing: me, subversive?
My husband is the best grandfather ever, which is what he intended to do when he retired: be a grandfather. He’s doing a really good job with it.
And that is all important.