a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
Love, the dogwoods are fish shaking loose their pale scales. I like it when you’re not here so I can tell you what you’re missing: a skein of black dirt stretched like lace across the kitchen floor and through the windows two birds tussling in a sea of felled petals. The river was once a place for me to drown myself, tying to my ankles the weight of what I’d lost, then jumping in: Tensaw, Paint Rock, Coosa, Sipsey, Cahaba, Mobile, Chattahoochee, Pea. Nothing could have stopped me from my own agreement with regret. Now the river is for showing me the uselessness of sharp edges, how each thing that curves away is not a body resisting but a pleasure waiting to be reciprocated. When you come home, there’s nothing that won’t be waiting for you.