Pot roast

   My mother wasn’t a cook with a gourmet repertoire, but no one made a better pot roast.    Even better than the Jersey diner pot roast she loved, as much for its heft as for its sides: Parker House rolls, iceberg salad, a single slice of tomato robed across its top.    Her pot […]

Neighbors

My road quirks and climbs, its trees, one heavy at the hips, split in the middle. A neighbor’s home painted green and plum, like a bruise.           Peaches opens the door           to let the dog out           but never leaves the house […]

Henrietta

I tell Henrietta about my mother’s heartbeat and how I heard it in her womb. I think I’m lying, but as I speak, I feel it in my own chest, the bongBong of it, wavery through the saline sac. My hand, a tiny shimmer of ghost beside my cheek. I hear my mother first, then feel […]