- By Edward Clifford
a: You are chopping onions for yet another pot of lentils, hips pressed up against the kitchen counter, when first you hear it. The sound of mewling. Barely audible. You put down your knife.
b: One year earlier, on fellowship in Kansas, you are returning to your Airbnb from your walk. You see your house and yard down the street within view, but something looks peculiar. As you come closer, you can make it out: a vulture feeding on a possum's corpse
—from "sheltering," Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020)
Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
I wrote about the sky as if it were a patchwork quilt—“seams and denim skies.” And I workshopped it with William Stafford at a community poetry class, and...