No. 1 · Esther
The Journey to Me
‘The city nothing but rooftops!’ you’d say So we’d walk to the country, collect litter from the hillside, laughing like flower children. You believed in anarchy.…
No. 1 · EstherIn Transit
I met a man who wrote poetry on buses. Not in magic marker on seat backs or spray-paint on ceilings. In a dog-eared notebook he inscribed…
No. 1 · EstherOn His Own Path
‘I’m a poet,’ he announced, one morning at the bus station. The words filtered through benches, became a distant echo but, like the newspaper dancing against…
No. 1 · EstherUnexpected Guests
Please do not leave when I scream. I am not a child, easily frightened By the white outlined shape of a man, leaning over my husband…