- By Edward Clifford
As a girl I pictured death the way
I pictured sex, transporting and light
on details. Except he should be
mounted. Mustachioed and dashing.
Now, I hear about a woman—
an acquaintance, my age—
on a shaded path I also walk, whose heart
quit just before the lime-kiln turnoff,
—from “Footpad,” Volume 61, Issue 1 (Spring 2020)
Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
I was in the fifth grade when I wrote a description of a gathering snowstorm. I don't know if it was any good, though I enjoyed writing it. My teacher made me read it out loud to our class, usually a mortifying experience, but somehow I found myself paying attention to the sound of the words, how they fit...