my words

“Did you bring me out here to kill me?” My grandmother filled the Buick with her thin, old woman voice; it ricocheted off the headliner as we slewed back and forth in the loose gravel. She was partly right: we were going to help an old woman die. Just not her.

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“Can I have another one?” The middle-aged lady scuffs up in her sparkly flip flops for her second box lunch. She ends up with four every day; I worry what they’ll find when they clean her room. Still, I smile at her under my mask and go ahead and hand over a stack of lunches in brown paper bags.

Read more in How We Are.

As the insurrection flowed up the steps of the Capitol, spilled into the chambers of our legislators, and wiped its shit on the walls of our democracy, it was easy to conjure images of Iraq, Afghanistan, or even Somalia. Instead, I saw Guatemala.

Read more in Causeway Lit

I am driving my father halfway across Mississippi so he can die a little more. He's doing his part,  sitting  next to me with cancer eating his insides.

From O-Dark-Thirty Review, download

The ground gave them up one by one, like stubborn births. I lifted them, brushed off the clinging dirt, then carried them to a new place where they rest, gravid, waiting for me to decide how best to use them. I may take years to do that; after all this time they have earned just the right spot. 

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