He was dying and I didn’t know it.
He was dying and the tests were inconclusive.
He was dying and I changed his diet.
He was dying and he couldn’t tell me.
He was dying and I dreamt of poplars shivering,
a tumor in their lungs.
He was dying and there was nothing more
they could do.
He died and I swept his fur from our house.
He is dead and the broom gathers dust, alone.
There in the back of the closet of the room that was once my room and is now a museum to childhood is a photo, slightly curled with age, of ten sc
May the road to fulfillment be long and steep and smeared with fog, moss-lined, leaf-strewn, rockslide-prone, oft-closed for repair, haunted, the
On a perfectly normal Saturday, the kind where normal humans do normal human things, I log online to check my bank account for fraud...
