A journal of narrative writing.
Lines For Little Mila

Here, in a cloud of rising flour she dabs at her chin— aging leaves a blemish just like this... the egg behind the cloud of flour now falling to a black mica counter. Grandmother with a coffee tin full of raw milk. The sun gone beyond the mountains long before it’s gone from us. Men cleaning fish, husking corn on the porch. I told a friend’s little girl about some of this, and she immediately slumbered, putting a blue ghost inside my chest. I said to her— so you still remember things from the other side? Then quickly I added— of that river?