Stephen Parrish
by
January 12, 2023
By Stefanie Lee
I’ll tell you about how I’ve been remembering myself in the silver crucifixes and imaginary cracks of light underneath a centuries-old door frame. About how I find smudges of my soul on everything I touch, bones, dirt, the paper-thin resolve in my hands. It’s dark, you know.
Indoors, faith's crumb turned my without force // as a red need - the language, the // locate plan.
Trees, asleep in winter, dreaming of sun and blossoms. And why shouldn’t they?