Tag Archives: Darla Mottram

Letters

I trace muted blue-green tracks across the tundra of my wrist. I keep forgetting they aren’t roads, that they don’t lead anywhere new. Inside me is a war. A compass spins within my chest; confused, lacking more than magnetism, it … Continue reading

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Tree Games

I. If you were a tree, you’d be a catalpa. The most beautiful tree, he said, bursting with white flowers in spring. Years later someone’s uncle stood next to me on a bridge overlooking water. Catalpas bloomed on the other … Continue reading

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Tony and the Red Toyota

You used to park your red Toyota in the church parking lot on Wednesday evenings. The Russian immigrants would file past, somber, curious. The organ hummed its numbing prayer in the background while we talked. You popped the hood of … Continue reading

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