Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
River Roads It was my first trip back to Boston after your breathless rush, crammed boxes stacked like fortresses against my grief, into the arms of another woman, the first time I had courage enough to stand on that steaming Continue reading River Roads by Pris Campbell
Shifts My husband shifts in the night and I wake, make up memories of what could have been between us had my health held – dancing through the house at midnight or reading sonnets by candlelight beside a dead poet’s Continue reading Shifts by Pris Campbell