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I have spent hours in attics, the kind reached by pulling a rope in the ceiling and ascending to a stagnant room. It was in attics that I found love letters tied with ribbons, and wedding dresses in paper boxes the size of coffins, and sepia photographs of uncles in uniform and children who’d died of scarlet fever. I sifted through images of wraparound porches and white chickens, three-legged dogs and men with cigars. I think there is a reason why the past collects in attics: heavily, above us.
December 2024The summer of my mother’s illness, / a season so hot and dry it might / have erupted in flames, we discovered / the dog liked television.
December 2014My daughter discovers sex while watching / a documentary about elephants.
November 2010Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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