by Judith Harris | May 26, 2021
Onions at My Father’s Funeral As they were lowering his coffin into the ground beside my mother’s grave where the grass had regrown— my body leaned and followed, my eyes peered into that hole, the scent of pine rose up, mixing with that of wild onion underfoot, and I...
by Judith Harris | Oct 27, 2020
Paul Klee once said, “He has found his style, when he cannot do otherwise.” There are poets whose language takes on this kind of inevitability, something Rilke called the “unconcealedness of being,” which shimmers on, star-like and unbidden, shouldering the pain of...
