- By Christin Howard
“Stars crept through bedroom windows to feed the dark.
Everybody became a friend that died.
Blitzed desire tiptoed in from all directions.
Wintered, feverish roses bloomed on yellowed sheets.
Not me, thinking back as far as I could– who
did I touch? How many sheets spilled over my bed…” —From "Better Angels II," Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2)
Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote:
I wrote a poem “Estate Sale” while visiting relatives in Appomattox, VA. My aunt was having a lawn sale. When I started the poem, I had no idea where I was going with it until...