Tag Archives: Alarie Tennille

When I Was 12

The maple reached low to cup my foot, then I danced in its sway to the top branches— so slight the tree preferred me to Frank or Eddie. Just me. Invisible as the wind. Cool in August. But Mama screeched … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | 6 Comments

Still with Me

I coveted that chicken. The tiniest animal in the plastic barnyard full of cows, pigs, sheep, and the more flamboyant rooster. The hen looked little even in my six-year-old palm that I closed tight around her. I took her home. … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry, Reprint | Tagged | 1 Comment

Lost in Time

We still look for you in that sepia photo we suspect of hiding in a book. Daddy, if we didn’t know you, that picture would convince us you were born in the antebellum South. You a barefoot two-year-old in a … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment