Burt Myers

Nanna’s accordionis gathering duston a plywood floorat the top of the stairs.She got it in ’41,back when she was justa child, before the war.Kids themselves, her heirscan’t bear its squawking spirit,its raw asthmaticrasp, or its wheezingsick-room breath.They imagine they hear it,even from the . . . . Continue Reading »

The Sons of Katie Elder make such noise! Dad’s fast asleep, despite his three grandsons waving their toy pistols, kiddy cowboys shouting to be heard above John Wayne’s guns. Mom sits out in the kitchen, where the din is slightly less ear-splitting, with her boys. We try to talk, but can’t . . . . Continue Reading »

The sisters, quick to gather, like moths to candlewick, mourn another sudden death, with thrumming talk and measured breath. Their men succumbing one by one, they rally round the common family good and carry on, stoic and sorrowbound, in widowhood. . . . . Continue Reading »