By Diane Seuss
I dreamed of it again, my dad’s body lost to us again but finally found again, we set him in Dickinson’s coffin, wooden, painted white, where had his body been all these years, things felt strange,
By Elliott Holt
His father’s apartment, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, Oriental rugs, and views of Central Park, filled Helen with longing. She had always imagined herself in New York. She had always wanted a claim to that city’s streets.