The idea was to drive to Louisiana overnight and show up at Petra’s doorstep and tell her things about love and fulfillment and mistakes and forgiveness. Whether or not I actually meant any of these things, I couldn’t say, but it didn’t seem to matter; it was the spectacle I was going for...
It’s a little late for name-dropping but still, I’d like to tell the story about my mother, who grew up in Hoboken, New Jersey, in a house across the street from Frank Sinatra...
Poet Marvin Bell says, “I wanted to see the self, so I looked at the mulberry.” In many ways, this is exactly what Ronda Broatch explores in her new chapbook, Shedding Our Skins.
If you are alone, washing a few dishes, and it’s winter,
it’s night, it’s raining, and you see your son’s faint
picture floating at the window in a cold light, moonlit...
There are people in the world, I’m sure of that,
seen with their comings and goings, umbrellas,
rain-coats decorated with loose buttons
and the long belt that loses its way out of one loop...
Too bad about the rain, washing away the roadside
as the pond overflowed. If I had painting as a hobby,
I’d paint a lone man feeding ducks
by the side of the road—his pants, ankle high...