Category: My Writing Challenges

  I go out into the world, looking for strawberries like the ones from my mother’s garden. They were small and firm, sweet but bitter,…

  Yesterday, I spent the day sleeping away my life. It was peaceful, the blankets all clustered near the back porch door, and all the…

  I want to get back into drawing, the pencil in my hand, the thick charcoal under my nails. I keep collecting spare pieces of…

  You should know by now that we can’t go back. Not like this. Not back through the electric fence or past the sheep, dehydrated…

  A promise of something small—and the skin warms.     August 13, 2014, MLT    

  There was no other way to tell you that life was harmful: threw the box into the river, filled with rocks, with you, with…

  Tears burn yellow, burn wide, in the sun. The small sunflower seeds left over along your collar and in your hair. They are senseless,…

  and concern. There is a vase of the yellow masses in the window. They remain motionless despite the sound of the air cracking, the…

  In the rain, they are too small. The wings, the small holes, the designs, are filled with water. Their bodies glisten. I collected a…

  Left out on the farm, there is the threat to turn cold. The discovery of the skeleton of an opossum on the line between…

  Look at the way the body separates; the individual, round skulls—the rotation, the turn, the hum. The brains lift down into the feet, small…