L’Auteur Fatslug   Fatslug wonders how people dreamed or daydreamed before the movies infiltrated their thoughts. He himself has become his own Steven Spielberg— or, depending on his...

I hate you with the sharpness of the edges of a Viking's teeth I hate you from every part of my body - from my...

In the photo of the kitchen fire, We are dressed for Christmas: Me in a flammable hand-me-down jacket, Her in her costume jewelry And her Edward Scissorhands t-shirt.   The...

My father, tangled in the height of adolescence, wept outside Old Saint Paul’s Church as spring died, reading Desiderata. The poem lay inscribed in rock at the...

Through the harsh whistle of a bullying Blue Jay from the feeder, the Common Yellowthroat’s wichity-wichity-wichity, we find our own through bill and tap and rhythmic drumming on drainpipe, bone...

True Story Metaphor for My Parents' Divorce In this shrinking house, I am still growing, my wrist gripped between window and sill, one toe pinched in neat...

When I went to pick my daughter up at pre-school, the kids were on the playground. Her teachers eyed me uncomfortably and glanced across the slide at...

We can speak to the rain, but it does not say anything to us. “Why are you so strong? Why do you want to flood us?” we ask...

The hives have gotten through another year— I’m sure you’ve heard of the alternative. Buy soon and you can have the Holsteins here. No guarantee of how...