Benjamin Pryor

At three o’clock she unlocked the door in ratty boxer shorts and shift,redhead of swirling islands. He’d been gaga over her matchboxes, her beeswax miniatures.

My mother lived on Balsam Roadwith four siblings and a moundof paper dolls, safe upon a chessboardof kitchen tiles. The house sat like a sugar

After winter’s pill, a flurry of frogs like Roscoe Holcomb from the pond downhill at dusk, a sunset thong bunched on a black branch. All

A baby fox we found sleeping six years ago beneath a shedreappeared for his wake. He squinted beneath the porch when I hopped down to