My father’s hand moves so slowly when he writes fingers clutched tight around his pen the tip as hard as a flickering faith a determination to make seconds count I know now, like all good tales they don’t get told. They flow from his fingers to my pen tip. I was planted under neglect Is…

In between sips of perfectly orchestrated peppermint tea, steps on and off the ropey bathmat you snuck near the bathtub, sweet raspberry sorbet with a mosel of weakly matcha butter cookie and guzzles of sickly rich apple cider spiked with whiskey just cool enough to warm torsos.  In between shadows cast in yellow lamplight and…