Michael J. Vaughn
Smiling Carmella finds the hard place in the middle of the garden, taps the keystone with the nail of her finger, calls me to her side.
She brings me questions wrapped in brown-bag book jackets, counting the days on her knuckles until wherefore turns into why and fires roots into the loam.
When the lighting bugs come, you'll need solid shoes to trod the cornrows, mayonnaise jar in your hands, roll of string in the pocket of your jeans.
Goodbye, Carmella. Greet the morning side of the lake for me. Ice blue eyes, one oar at your back, and singing always singing.