Before the Hurricane

The father sits, himself furniture. The dog on the floor pops head-up, smells the smell of danger as only dogs can do. The mother, a mattress up in the bedroom. The roof with its shingles, the edges lifting in the building-up wind. Two brothers in the den, divvying up their toys. The soldiers can live … More Before the Hurricane

My Father, Leaving

Coming home that night, the sunlight outside. The burn of an overcooked chicken. My sister a seed in my mother’s belly. The flowers wilting in the hall. The hint of another woman’s perfume. My mother motioning to the rent check on the dining room table. My father giving me a dollar to go to the … More My Father, Leaving