Joanna Locke, stone lithography on iridescent fabric embedded in handmade paper
My roommate once wrote a poem and said their prose came from feeling touch starved. And I’ve been thinking of the poem ever since. I’ve been thinking of the last time someone touched me. It hasn’t been long, actually. But I’ve shed enough skin cells that my arms have never been held by someo
Small towns are great places to live, if you fit the “good Christian values” mold. But as I’ve grown, and started to spill out of it, at least I have my local church to support me. Wait. You shall not give false testimony against your neighbor. Okay, in that case, I hate the church. No, [&hell
Leave no trace, we say, pouring water from newly dented Hydroflasks onto embers. Steam rises above dimming campfires, where it joins the circulating rumors of Axel the Giant Snapping Turtle which never totally disperse (they are true, after all). I love you in the morning and in the afternoon, we si
