1. Treasure On a Friday afternoon in June, my eldest son and I search for treasure on the shores of Lake Erie. We crouch down on
Debra Marquart
We bury my grandfather in a hillside cemetery outside Atlanta. It is July 2020. Throughout the brief ceremony, elongated with heat, we stand measured paces apart.
My brother and I dug for worms, our knees furrowing the farmer’s dirt, our nails blackened by its bounty. And where we found them, we cradled
in memory of John Beecher 1953, westbound from Boston on the Lake Shore Limited, steel whining on steel through Berkshire pines, skirting the hems of
with passion, several coquís sing, though its already past dawn meanwhile the cat considers her every step, and taking them, you can’t hear her together, these
"Covid 2021 - 41" "Covid 2021 - 10" "Covidtimes 3" ARTIST STATEMENT I primarily use acrylic paint, latex paints, inks, papers and charcoal. My images contain
I Above one end of the crescent strip— three greater white fuel tanks, the catchment of industrial dreams. At the other, a sea cliff, where crumbling
Sapiens Pulse the River We blame death for there always being so much more. A baby's crown, his soft spot thrumming, open bottles of sedative within
Try to see the animal as a series of shapes, the book tells me, a squirrel in ovals to which you add details: ear, eyes, nose.
Caite McNeil is a writer and illustrator. Her work is place-based and often humorous, pulling inspiration from a childhood spent in rural Maine. Her latest project
