by Danielle Ryle / Poetry
I held your hand with a fascist grip,still jealous to remind you how realI am. Our fingers lace, thumbs wag,as if we hold a spider between us,its eight legs curled mercilesslyin drafty death: your fingertips hotenough to bore through both …
by Danielle Ryle / Poetry
When the neighborhood was still house, house, field,when I was small and prone to lying, I sawin the early morning, a red-brown fox perfectlystill in the yard. The dog was asleep somewhere.The fence should have kept him out. He tickedhis …
