after Emily Brontë & Emily Dickinson   Hope makes herself comfortable in the dark.            the moon has run away Even if she looked up, she would not see the sky but for the hairline crack in the lid of the jar. Her wings no longer flutter; they collect dust like swollen sapphires found glistening in … Continue reading Hope

The wasp

You were loud. Hovering vertically at my window. Demanding rather than asking to be let in. You did not wait; assumed if you made enough noise the glass would break, yield itself to your stripes and void-like eyes. You did not wait. You did not knock. There was nothing kind about your entrance; there was … Continue reading The wasp