Prose
I proposed to Bill and the department that we launch a “little magazine” that would publish the best contemporary literary and visual art we could find.
You also told me once that I’d look terrible bald. My hair uncurls from one of the pink curlers. I imagine myself standing in the rain, holding a bucket over my head,
The translingual has made a traitor of me.
During a recent conversation with a friend, we struck upon the topic of her nearly complete collection of Nancy Drew hardcovers. I immediately pictured them as they had appeared in my childhood: books aged prematurely by the humidity of numerous seasons spent reading them in the Caribbean.
