Bayouish
Lenore Weiss
03/12/2015
Louisiana bayou, you are a collection basket for Mother Nature’s hand-me-downs.
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Louisiana bayou, you are a collection basket for Mother Nature’s hand-me-downs.
My mouth dropped. Never had I expected her to utter those words. “Yes,” I said, feeling an immediate kinship with a woman who was standing in front of me on
Down a driveway of cement cobblestones, I talked to her about ghosts. Cam was my height, which means short, mostly black hair gathered in a ponytail, silver and grey on
two angels sit on steps regenerating the third a look-out for whatever got them into this mess— a rag of wings a bindle of legs angels on a goof setting off
I look at the walls of your town house where you lived for more than forty years and died after your hundredth birthday just as you predicted you would. I’m
The old woman who lived beneath our house called up to me. “Why are you leaning over the railing with a fishing pole?” I wanted to do something special like