Beth Stahlecker

Crossed by crows the world's gone white. Where are the ones we miss? I dismiss cold ground, my eyes caught by armfuls of berries, draped by a vine thickly through branches facing the kitchen far up above the woods, the wooded lot running between hous [...]

Tillie, I'm writing about you, not knowing if you're there, if it's there, the heaven where there's no wonder or worry, only the glory of having time off. How could they name you after a nun— Matilda Cyrilla—and mean it? In the end, you'd come ou [...]