Three poems by Kathryn Gray
Nostalgia If I could tell now just how that grass felt – itchy, summer wet – as we rolled the incline, raced each other down, bad-landed in a heap; if I could pull from my pocket the chalk dust from shattered Parma Violets and blow this from my palm like so, then I’d be getting some proximity toward his hand spanned up my skirt … Continue reading Three poems by Kathryn Gray