A decade or so ago, I wrote this poem and from this sprang the children’s picture book, Where Wildflowers Grow. In this, my siblings and
I enter your room as a chilled breeze while you slumber deep. My translucent hand glides along the wood as I hover near your footrail.
Memento mori is what they say. Life’s short so do what you must. Live in the moment, and in this do trust— if you were
I wondered as he puttered around, could I kill a man with the strength of my legs? Could I crush the life from his chest—
“My flight was late,” I confessed. The sweet, sultry memory stirred. Rare for me to concede to desire, but our dance’s push-pull elevated want to
My heartbeat ticked in my head. Both eardrums thumped, and the vein on the side of my neck pulsed in unison with each beat. Every