By Nora Diday.
We sit on thin wooden chairs
facing a crucifix.
The song echoing through the hall
smells like loss to the four of us,
reminding us of the last time we were here.
She grips my hand tightly in her lap
while singing “Be not afraid.”
Her voice breaks,
but she continues singing,
holding high her quivering chin.
Anonymous / 12 That last day I walked those halls, I memorized, in my head, every sight and smell -- Stored it like a sacred star. And saw those vested men from afar As they began to crush and fell Th
Hannah Myers / 10 (BARE staff) I walk into the Ohio feather-leafed forest, my feet crackling with each step, the dead bodies of old green lying on top of moist-gut soil ready to be decomposed into dir
Jack Son / 12 The shape of water geometric automation of fluid vested upon all but itself unveils workings of gaia beneath and reflects essence unseen Geometric fabric of tao threads fates of predeter