Writing

Haibun

Your eyes are big and round like your father’s
but while his are the color of the Irish Sea
yours are the color of the muddy fields
on my father’s land
fit only for the peasants who worked them.

abortion day
a shadow flutters
the fish tank

Poetry

  • daybreak
    lilies light
    the light

  • snowed in
    the dog clicks
    from room to room

Flash Fiction


Under the Piano

The piano’s shawl hides me. Mom comes in and turns on the record player. Famous Opera Arias. Her favorite. The love seat’s plastic squishes when she sits down. She’s wearing her blue socks. The thick itchy ones. I stick my thumb in my mouth and close my eyes. Mom’s record screeches out La donna è mobile. She thinks I scratched it but I didn’t. Here it comes. La —- mobile. Mom sighs. It’s the needle’s fault. It made the scratch, not me. I want to tell her. But I don’t. Liar, she’d say. I don’t care. I’m invisible. Under the piano.

Back To Top