My husband’s dentist has this giant poodle named Ned that sits as still as a statue on the golf cart seat, his profile regal, his fur flappi...

The goals I never chased Dreamcatcher Gareth Nurden is a haikuist from Newport, Wales and has had several hundred pieces published in ninete...

The Swift River, taking with it whatever it can carry, bringing nothing back— along with my adult daughter, I crossed dry-shod by means of a...

the first snow smelled like white crayons eight nine ten eight nine ten those coats are watching me yesterday I lost the red petunia All the...

What my mother called the family of greens she stabbed with her fork. She ate with determination, as though this might be her last meal. She...

The last time I saw you in this world, it was in the darkened living room. It was about three in the morning when, half passed-out on the co...

I’ve a habit – an unfortunate one, according to others – of leaving the house without my cell phone. Later I’ll run into someone who’ll say,...

          -for Dana I blamed a deviated septum, blamed the nightmares left over from the war, you blamed the alcohol and my restless twitchi...

He swears to his wife that snow hits the ground with a scraping sound, none of that silent night stuff most people talk about in a winter s...

I am an intrepid tracker. Hunting. I read broken twigs, indentations in soft mud, finding the fleeing crab across endless sandflats. I read ...

Young girls gather at stage door, feet turned out, their own worn toe shoes in hand, eager to capture autographs on sweat-stained satin. My ...

In the dream, my father sits by himself against the back wall. The room is full. People are in pairs and small groups, but he is alone and c...

Even among the expats you were treated as second-class, not a member of the inner circle, never invited to those famous parties with actors,...

In the deep South, when we go to sleep with the possibility of snow and wake to the sound of disappointment in the form of pelting rain, we ...

          Listen to the story told by the reed, of being separated. / “Since I           was cut from the reedbed, I have made this crying s...

Snow this morning. Flakes as big as oak leaves flutter in the eddying air, as if their appointment with the ground might wait. I watch them ...

The neighbor with dementia wants what she wants. I go to five or six shops to find it, even then a close approximation: Slim- Fast milkshake...

We wade through shallow ends of empty pools & crowded rooms. Our heads drip onto our phones. Who are you? says the stranger, a lusty god...

The bakery burned all night. Flames rose like astonished birds. The smell of sugar turned bitter as smoke stitched itself into the trees. By...

My father wore threadbare white t-shirts and blue pajama bottoms to bed, a plaid bathrobe in the mornings. He liked to read the local paper ...