Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
Clandestine In the rinse of another grey day unrolling before us like an empty film. I want to scream out against flat skies, tear up coarse air. Another grey day gnawing at me sounding metallic beats putting me through its Continue reading Clandestine by Joan McNerney
You Too? They thought I was way too much maybe thought too much. Definitely too tall and too smart for my own good. Taking insults too personally… too, you know, all over the place. Later I became too fat, too Continue reading You Too? by Joan McNerney