Life underground, for many of the things that have adapted to it, is like this: The lines between alive and not alive, dead and not, get blurred. Examining these lives raises uncomfortable questions about the very thing we think of as life...
I found a black snake on the porch, its body so still I didn’t dare breathe. Lungs arrested, I might have left my body then. It was long, a rope I could Double Dutch, a tilde underneath every word I try to love differently.
My dream daughter is chopping onions. She has been chopping for hours, slipping off the skin like tea-colored lingerie, slicing them thinly like the rings of some beloved planet.
All summer I found thousands of four-leaf clovers. I had been living at a firehouse since COVID-19 broke out, volunteering as a paramedic. One slow shift, my EMT partner Sam and I found a couch on a grassy hill overlooking a leveled...
