by Emma Race Continue reading Summer in Amsterdam
He’s back again. The scrawny one whose hands shake when he speaks, even when he tries to hold them tight in those white-knuckled fists of trepidation. He starts up the steps towards me, reaching out with one hand as he says,
“Father,” but he’s come at the wrong time today. Continue reading “Confession”
If you are a dandelion,
I will whistle your skin until
my cheeks turn purple,
so each part of you
can know what flying feels like.