Daniel Luttrull

He wouldn’t say her memory was lostBut that she was lost in it—the foggy pastClung to her and calcified to frostUntil, at last, her very present passedThrough this shimmering glass of memory.He woke once to her sitting up in bed.The drawl he’d thought she’d left in KentuckyReturned in . . . . Continue Reading »

I follow her story only in part, like a man looking from a lit room at dark hills, silhouetted against navy skies— his own staring face superimposed by a ghostly glare from the light of the room. At her story’s crux, Timkat lays down her broom and in an overflow of English says: You . . . . Continue Reading »