Eric Williams

—for Gray St. Germain Gideon, 1984-2014 It’s these ancestral mountains, massive as grief, that dominate, sharp, angular, .............fragments .........................jutting out like fingers or hands. Split, shattered,

The summer of my first kiss, I played French horn in a rodeo band. The annual Plainview rodeo was a big deal in our Texas Panhandle

So white. Dirty-edged though, like snow charcoaled with car exhaust Pale creamy, smooth as baby’s skin as my skin was once when azaleas bloomed under Spanish

Tom uses the crowbar he stole out of Arnold’s truck to break into the lion house. On the threshold, in the confluence of the warm gamy

  I met Rachel and Sheri behind a gentrified shopping center in Baltimore, Maryland. Sheri shared stories about her journey to poverty and homelessness. I stood,

The day after Valentine’s Day, I sat in my car and watched a small falcon devour the heart of a mouse. Little pink legs squirmed in

We are hunters, my siblings and I. It’s early morning, and a film of mist papers the air, which insects unzip with erratic flight patterns. We

In the North the woods are deep and soft and the lakes, at dawn and dusk, carry sound as if it were a holy thing. You

Surtsey exploded out of the North Atlantic, just off the coast of Iceland, on November 14, 1963. The entire world watched as volcanoes on the sea

“Listen, they say the first time ain't the greatest, but I tell ya if I had the chance to do it all again, I wouldn't change