Depending on the situation and people involved, this outside world may or may not crash like terse waves into said Self, transgressing a felt sense of sovereignty, wholeness, intactness, a concept which is intangible yet real . . . very real.
Sarah Chin’s story navigates the sticky terrain of grief.
An ekphrastic prose poem that makes the artifact embodied through a narrative.
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Lydia did not vacuum the floors or dust the overloaded bookshelves when the men started returning three years later, in small groups of fifty or five hundred at first. She did not stoop below her daughter’s small white desk, now the centerpiece of the family room, to gather up the tiny construction-paper piles that had …
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