It was one of those thunderstorms came on sudden-like. Before a body could cover its head it had passed on someplace else. Here, in our holler, we were used to such storms. We liked the surprise of ... [+]
Poetry
Contemporary
1 min
Michigan State University Libraries call for submissions on the theme of "Home," in coordination with the MSU Board of Art Museum's exhibit, "Where We Dwell."
Strike
My nephew flies a drone over my grandparents' empty house, over the orchard and empty barn, and past glazed windows—sun igniting the stained wallpaper of empty rooms. Every day the temperature slips— minus five, minus ten, and still the fire department plots to burn the house. We wait for the match to strike— a flame as slender as a finger. They'll bring in hay bales and wood pallets to kindle what is empty. It hardly makes sense, the scale of what will come. My grandpa lit one match each autumn, put a log on the fire every night before bed, stoked the fire every morning with apple wood until