a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
At my age, mother to four. Flushing, she pinched a nerve in my father’s elbow. Some native to that place shape my eyes. Both sides passed down, what can I claim.
Another grandmother approached the wasp nest with hinged tea strainer and boiling water, sewed glow-worms for three daughters. Her husband strung the loom with rough wool.
Moths found last winter’s sweaters. Withered basil, each apartment dims. Glimmer. I speak a language no known mother tongued.
Visit a fortress near Urbino. Examine the embrasure. Who proceeded me alive then. Beaches of Mumbles Head, woods of Tennessee. I do not know what they built. Only clouds move the same.
Turn west to face the fields, acquire lack.