Anna Stiritz

This is the home he wants: his own,chosen twenty years agoout of a bone-deep needto fill a glass with water fromhis own well and drink his coffeefrom his own brown mug. He carvedhimself a garden from a matof briars, dug and bent the soilto his will, soft and submitting.Everything here is left . . . . Continue Reading »

John Glenn Smith’s last day at home was hot, cicadas scratching out their shrilling rhythm from the deeper woods behind the house. Everywhere he went, the sound was with him. That morning he went out to pick the garden in overalls and long-sleeved checkered shirt, a hat to shade his head, his . . . . Continue Reading »