She scowled
at Dad’s medicine.
Her curative was prayer.
Even the blood of Jesus
was made Welch’s.
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SCENES FROM THE FITZ By John Grey
She’s the last of her kind in this bar that’s the last of its kind. She smokes one cigarette after another, lighting the next while the curr...
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lemonade hair dead and deflated thin like a bleached ghost; mascara rings fat as a star pitcher’s eyeblack; she cracked her broken finger ba... -
Once he spoke the indirect speech of men, as if making bar bets after third drinks that become sincere, become angry, mean. Just his half jo... -
Diamond hair Bathe in bourbon and butter You are my Sunday prayer You are everything You are all You are life Rita S. Spalding has had poem...
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