Prose & Poetry

All of it erodes. Even language loses its edge to the muddle. Time the acid etcher

Together we rolled—wheels groaned ‘long the rocky path, Wagon aimed West, our new life: a settler’s

The hurricane-waiting music remained, echoing after the power surged and died. A lullaby. I sleep. No

I saw St Peter at the supermarket buying some shells and straw for his nest. He

Two old men sit atop chairs at a table practically as old as time. The first

One thinks of Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon with their paint brushes. They have more in

My dour husband, last appropriator of my heart and senses, last in a long line of

It had become glaringly obvious: boredom had set in.The natives no longer climbed the Sacred Rock.There

Fast forward through moments like a VHS tape it’s a skim through of cool hues blood