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It was - what - early sunlight sweeping the back steps, light awed as the skin of a tadpole. Dust floats in it like bits of history shaken from the skirts of ancient cousins, relations so distant you aren't a quarter what they were, one whole thing. He was Irish, a potato farmer. She was French, one of three daughters. English, a clerk. Scottish, their tartan black and green. Polish, still drunk. Your people. The Germans back four hundred years. See how the name has changed. 
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No Storm The sidewalk was glassy, white waves breaking in the morning. She collected fallen oranges from the curbside, placed a row behind the tires so he would not drive away. There is waiting, and there is waiting. It's impossible to say which one until arriving, eyelids reluctant as caramel when pulling into sight. Last night she felt a border, a burden, the snap.  |
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