by Clare Bolton | Apr 3, 2021 | Poetry
Her grandmother is a witch in a Shakespearian play, there’s a cast iron pot over the fire- filterless cigarette dangling from her mouth, blowing smoke through her Irish nose, thin long face, still higher cheekbones. Her grandmother rolls holy beads with...
by Clare Bolton | Apr 3, 2021 | Poetry
The white dove beams at the back of the country church glass wings gleam in the sun as the holy spirit pours light on the sacred sight of Lady, the old black and white dog who waddles over and washes my feet with her tongue- like Jesus washing the feet of his...
