"...harvest rain soaks the ceiling, weighted in ways unbeknownst to me — this grief can’t possibly be mine alone. still life, life still, collapsing of scenes. it all comes crashing, 730am & the dormant mold spores make known their estate, eat all the wood has to offer."
"I digress, resist autobiography. I once lived w/ no resentments, figs from out front, chilled summer soups. even the bleeding was romantic..."
Read S*an D. Henry-Smith in beestung No. 1
beestungmag.com/issue01/two-…