H.L. Hix

Sculptural works serve also as drawings, songs also as autumn afternoons. Ceramic vessels, spun to perfect circularity, stand, so few testaments to so many lives lost, so much time past. Only tragedies are only themselves. The year house finches nest [...]

If even thumbnails bear me messages— your blood is borrowed but the bruises yours to keep— then where am I, and who? Was my disappearance reported to the authorities before I learned of it myself? I could know I have gone missing only by report, [...]

She wrote what she wrote. Her digging dug her out of Dark down here and hard to breathe into Bright enough to turn my stomach, gotta squint, can’t tell where I am. Can’t tell what season this is supposed to be, can’t guess what sort of storm is [...]