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- CurrenAubade I was wearing an orange maternity dress that summer morning, standing at the airport that would take you to Vietnam. I wasn’t yet twenty-one. Our parents never said how foolish we’d been to marry, having done so themselves in a time of war. I watched you go up the steps of the plane, put on your sunglasses and turn to wave. Should I have thought I might never see you again? The armor of youth. I barely remember driving home, only the comfort of the bed, the antique dresser with mirrors across the room. Somewhere someone was mowing. I knew I should get up at some point, the baby’s foot a knot in my stomach. Outside were lilacs, hollyhocks, hydrangeas. I could make a bouquet. But I didn’t. Night came with its cool air, air you were flying through. A small lamp on, a moth at the screen in its camouflage. t Project
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