Tag: coffee

• October 25, 2016

  The Language We Bury Them In

  for Hannah Hamilton You wrote of comfort, crawfish boils and Port Vincent – for your father and the South and all of the things I’ve ever loved or never knew about. I read more and I learned you: your voice, flat on a paper, but heaving from aches, jerking from anticipation, and then rising with…
• January 14, 2014

  Airing

  I can hear the television blaring and I just want silence or chaos or maybe just a cup of coffee; the kind you’d tell me to go make a fresh pot of when I would drop by, without knocking, and without an invitation to sit in that chair, the one with the not-hardly but probably-once-was…