By Lucy Wan
my mother
on the narrow streets
the streets
her old haunt
her ghosts
my mother her ghosts
and me
crowded on these empty streets
By Lucy Wan
my mother
on the narrow streets
the streets
her old haunt
her ghosts
my mother her ghosts
and me
crowded on these empty streets
By Peyton Bender Grandma is small like me. Nestled into her faded flowered sheets, huddled into a pillow-fort coffin, her wrinkled eyelids blanket her eyes; her lips do not greet me with a smile today. She breathes like my cabbage patch doll—so subtly ...
By Hannah L. Nelson I hate that change means we lose that piece of what used to be. Understandably not entirely, ...
Poetry by Annalisa Hansford