The Easter Bunny has never been big inmy family’s mythology, and thank God—I’ve seen the grainy photographs ofterrifying mid-century mascot monsters. But one year, when
Your dove-eyes spy, while sipping Earl Grey cooled by milk,the ruby-throated hummingbird who builds her nestwith down of dandelions bound by spider’s silk—by dawn she’s
The now-clock is the clock of a toddler in which every number is replaced by the word “now”and the hands of now are always pointed
This is for the two-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half English and half God. Shake the dust.-Anis Mojgani, “Shake the Dust” Didn’t
But not for bodies, not for souls set free,but rather expectations: who they werein childhood’s pure perspectives, once so sure,now clearing in the eyes of
Honorable Mention in the 2023 Porter Fleming Literary Competition hosted by the Morris Museum of Art. Originally published in the Aiken Standard.
Empty hands are all I have. The nothing’s all You need:in the valley of my palm, You place a mustard seed. My skin’s no soil
I often try to soften Jesus—he who claims he came to set the world ablaze, set like flint, burning, burning,bearing a sword, a whip of
