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Tag Archives: Devon Bohm
The inquisitive grackles in our trees (may trees belong to anyone?) have become my translators. I no longer remember what it is to be a part of the wider world, wan in my nightlong spiraling, lips chapped with worries and … Continue reading
Bumblebees on the lupin and I am baking bread with our lavender, I am turning on all our lamps later now and the clouds are diaphanous again, no longer threatening to dump all of winter out on top of us—it’s … Continue reading
I lived most of my life near water and now I find myself trapped inland. I miss the ocean, but even a waterfall would do. All I want is that ordinary thing we all take for granted, pouring from our … Continue reading
Burned the pads of my fingers on the hot stovetop and now I give false fingerprints wherever I travel. A trick, a trick, but not a cruel-intentioned one— I don’t know who I am except not myself, not in any … Continue reading