from “Women Who Sleep With Dogs”
“I am rings. Rings of happy and sad seasons. Thick rings, and thin. An old tree, waiting to be cut down, or struck by lightning. I am rings of history and fear.”
Cat’s Garden
from “Women Who Sleep With Dogs”
Loneliness seeped into each windswept, prairie day until Cat could almost finger the sadness that clogged her throat, and feel its shape, a cold desperation that was hard like stone
Roadwork
“Blood pooled in the seat under the guy’s arm. How could blood come out of an arm that fast? How many beats in a life time? How many left?”
from the collection “Women Who Sleep With Dogs.” Published in Tales of the Concrete Highway, Blue Cubicle Press 2013