Nicole Jean Turner | Worcester, MA
A ripe gripe smacked in tacky spit through thin lips, a wet grape pressed tight between old mauve stained fingertips,… Read more
Atlas, whose lungs for centuries have bent against a stone railroad of ribs now wheezes as aerosol burns his eyes,… Read more
Some mornings I wake up writing. Through my window, the early sun is shining, my eyes still blinded I find… Read more
