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motherhood

Two Ambulances

In July 2021, five weeks after my mother died, my husband dropped me off at the emergency room of the small hospital in the Massachusetts town where my father now lived alone.

Alto Cumulus Standing Lenticulars

Ruth knew she was pregnant, but they’d driven the hundred miles from Gabbs to Tonopah anyway, for confirmation, she guessed, or for the change of scenery—though everywhere she looked there was desert and mountains, more desert, more mountains.

Dream Daughter

How long I’ve dreamt of you, teenaged and long-legged, lying on our porch, 
your mud-speckled sandals kicked off to the side, watching a tree slowly split 

When He Was Small

When he was small,
I rented a little studio 
in a building on Ninety-Fifth Street so I could have a room 
of my own to write. The studio was the size of a bathroom.

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