Wisteria drapes green bean-knuckled fingers over my forehead, the anointing oil of rain dripping. Robin poised upon the weathered, mossy timber spine of the swing set. I turn over in […]
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The Metaworker Literary Magazine
Where great stories are forged
Wisteria drapes green bean-knuckled fingers over my forehead, the anointing oil of rain dripping. Robin poised upon the weathered, mossy timber spine of the swing set. I turn over in […]
Read moreThis neighborhood is all I know, these placid lawns and cars consumed by blooms of rust where things move underneath the surface —parts and widens, comes a tuft of hair […]
Read moreFour tea cups lay unattended since Mittag – on the black, bedraggled table in the canteen. You and I – drinking each other in— Slow, dainty sips. Each tea […]
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