Lauren places her hand on the boy’s back to know he’s breathing, and she thinks what she’s been thinking since they left Texas—that she has no intention of being his mother.
Read MoreI press my ear against the earth
for the usual reasons: to fathom
ant scrabble, the sibilance of suckling
roots, the stoic decomposition
of underlying stones, groundwater abiding.
Read MoreIndeed I cling to the morning newspaper,
its relatively ancient news administered in ink
upon the crinolines of many dead trees,
like the postmortem of a marriage
those in the know already know has ended in divorce.
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The rivers had cleared up and were running blue, scouring the year’s silt from the bottoms, cleaning and scrubbing every stone. From time to time she and her father would see a bald eagle sitting in a cottonwood snag overlooking the river.
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