September for the Sycamores

    This morning the sycamores are peeling back their bark and revealing a dull white skin.  Above, their iron arms are stretched out with thousands of pallid green and scorched-tip leaves holding on. The foliage is still thick, and I can only see glimpses of the sun from the ground. Little by little, however,…

“I Don’t Know, Elias. I Don’t Know.”

Nope, I have no tattoos. I know! I’m surprised, too. There are a few ideas that I entertain from time to time, but I’ve just never, you know, done it. My sister and I talk about getting matching tattoos, something celebrating our family. She wants one that celebrates our dad—knowing all too well that our…

Tips for Drying Goldenrod

    Tips for Drying Goldenrod By Karen Guenther-Attea 1. Wake up, Pray 2. Clip your flowers midday after the dew has dried off. On a windy day, I suppose it doesn’t matter. 3. The boughs don’t need to be too tight, oh but that is too tight. Well, maybe it will be okay. 4….

The Work of a Rose

      The work seems invisible now. But just yesterday, Mom called me on the phone.  The news was bad: grandpa was in the hospital again.  He’s strong, but it’s unlikely this time.  For a year I watched over my grandpa’s farm. But Mom’s been showing up this whole time as one of the…

At Home in Snow

      We met north of the city. Outside, the church doors were locked and no wonder, it was a Monday. We both missed morning mass. It was the holidays, December, and this time of year seems to both rekindle and revoke my nostalgia for home. Dad rolled down his window to greet me…

Gravity is Measured in Distance

    I agree. Everyone at some point, given the chance, should get lost, should have their preconceived notions challenged, and should have their ass kicked (figuratively) by travel in a foreign or maybe just in an unfamiliar place. But growing up no one told me why travel was beneficial.  Ambitious middle-class youth would talk…

A Run Down Beuhler’s Hill

        I don’t know where it comes from, that empathic or intutitive connection to the other worlds.  Do witches and seers just happen like an oddity, by chance and without reason within a narrative? I’m not necessarily calling myself a witch, maybe witchy, at times but I have been curious.  My dear…

The Corgi

To my dear sister fighting cancer.  This was a poem for her birthday. How often do people stick their face in yours to ask, what it must be like, as they coddle you and call it affection—do they know? your short comings have never stopped you from coming as far as you have. And, anyways,…

Eating Dandelions (unpolished)

  His name is Paul, my maternal grandfather that is, but everyone just calls him Pop. I’ve asked my mother a hundred times where his nickname comes from, hoping that maybe once, just by chance, her encrusted neurons would finally make the connection. But, alas, the origin of the name, Pop, is lost history, or…