Nicole Pekarske

The dead do not watch us sleep, don't lay their palms on our soft-sweatered shoulders and think of the blood there, or listen, or leaf through our loosely-locked diaries. They don't spin wildly the dials of car radios, don't give us dreams. Like the [...]

Horace IV.i Christ, am I sweating under solitude's blanket again? A full year now I've read myself to sleep, worked through the mornings, and served up fine meals for "just friends." So why these nights do I sigh before locking the deadbolt? Love, I [...]

Wheatfield with a Lark—not yet a crow—and the sky oddly serene, the swath of foreground grass untortured: stolid horizontal bands. The brushstrokes here are fine, a dabbler's view while on vacation, ten days reading in a swept yard and mild weath [...]