Engaging and elevating writers in Baltimore, across Maryland, and around the world.
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Where We Come From
ME: When he went missing, and his truck was found on a neighborhood street a couple of miles from where he lived, I imagined Neal at a party first as a guest, then as a corpse, then a spectacle. You didn’t want to be around me.
GINNY: If he was going to be late getting home, he always gave me a call.
Morning With Papa Bear
I, Little Bear, always scramble out of bed and get dressed when I hear my daddy, Poppa Bear, putting on his shoes in the morning. We rent a 300-year-old tenant house, former slaves’ quarters, on an old Maryland estate. The estate is still a working farm, with cows and chickens, and corn fields.
Leavings
Over bedrock, the water slides,
flecked with leaves curled crisp,
golden-hulled boats a-sail in the current,
spinning, spun, snagged, freed,
oblivious to the river’s bend,
around old trees felled like old men,
logs abloom with rot and moss.
The Desert Weeps for No One
The crags and spires of the Baboquivari mountains loom above the bajada where we stand, looking out on a dry desert expanse without end. Wind, rain, and time have sculpted an alien landscape that is rugged and rocky beyond belief.
Death Steps Back a Pace
We finish eating takeout at midnight. Stomachs churn with apprehension as we move closer to the end of this strange day, our first without you. We’ve brought weed and melatonin and essential oils from as far as the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to California.