by Robert Grant Price We had a good life in Rolling Meadows, so I don’t understand why Monica and her girlfriends wanted to build a homeless shelter in our town. I learned about it through Facebook. On a sweltering Saturday afternoon, after mowing the lawn, I slipped back inside our air-conditioned house and dropped myself …
I am thinking about the way the sun pours over your face. How you peel an orange, open half for me to taste the sweet joy of its juice. What do you know about love? Messy as pulp around the mouth. Sometimes rot on the skin. And if we are lucky, picked clean from the …
Reaching, stretching those supple summer muscles designed by long, generous hours in the sun. Into the nest of fluttering leaves, you pull down a fruit, a small sun so perfect in your hand it stings me. I’m reminded of the myth, and the hero who does not think twice about taking what and who …