March 14, 2017

A poem from the Spring 2017 issue.

Two years ago today my mother died,
eighty-nine and brilliant, stubborn, brave.
March 30, 2016

My neighbor offered to move the owl into—what? A box? She deserved better than a garbage bag.

February 11, 2015

At nineteen, I imagined living alone as a luxurious dream waiting in the distance after college—all the dishes would be mine, all the space mine. Instead, I feel alone and infested. I return one night and yank on the pull-string light in the kitchen and cockroaches scatter under the fridge.