The butcher's son, Clovis, had crooked fingers. Thick-knuckled and perpetually smeared with grease, they curled around cleavers like they'd been born that way. His left pinky was permanently bent from the time a side of beef slipped off its...

We keep them in bone-light jars, these grins of silt and vanished teeth— each curve a fossil of forgotten laughter, amber-stung with time’s slow syrup.Some are whispers etched in clay, crack-lipped and crow’s-footed, in the hollows of unmarked graves,...

Of stoned photographs in faded sepia,somewhere tween my tongue and ether,trying to remember sounds of laughterwhen they whisper your name. Dreaming of fingerprints,in the sleep that softly falls,lost between a wish and hymn,a hazy smile, forgetting names. In this limbo, where...