The grandfather who taught me how to pluck the feathers off fowl and slit its neck in one swift motion to shorten the agony of death. The grandmother who took two hanks of my hair in her hand and plaited them tight as whips to guide a horse. The father who hardly smiled but sang a lullaby ending with the word sweetheart. The mother who sewed the ugliest name on my towels and clothes, to trick the gods into leaving me alone.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.