Barbara E. Young: About the Language. And Inevitable Death
alone could fill all the space
between all the yellow cities on the map with a hollow
more empty than the echo of the emptiest of moved-from homes
February 7, 2022 · 2 Comments
Barbara E. Young: Cousin Jill
I like a woman who can fall
Jack said to Jill.
September 29, 2021 · 2 Comments
Barbara E. Young: Blues for the Fisherman
Since the blues ought to be tall birds
wading and wailing
when the sun dies—
let the blues fill its lungs now
July 12, 2021 · 3 Comments
