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Hard thoughts are held in small words.
Too much of my family has been lost to the haze of time and forgetting.
Closing the door requires an abrupt tug, surprising it into shutting, another side effect of an aging house
Sweat covers her, eating moonlight
It’s hard to recover from disgust.
You taint cards with your hope. You do not read future, you see wishes.”
a soft presence, warm with sleep.
She laughs; in another woman the sound would be sexual but in Enola it’s carnivorous.
We would bury ourselves in books until flesh and paper became one and ink and blood at last ran together.
New things make us young again.
“Ever love something so much you start to think it’s yours?”
The dirty secret about history is how much of it is conjecture.”
