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      July 21, 2021Sometimes the Dream Comes Back to MeLewis Crawford

      A short gravel driveway, the tatty wooden fence
      that stumbled—this way, that way—
      like the strides of a drunkard
      from the highway to the makeshift carport
      where me and daddy strung a gray tarp
      from a sagging oak
      to the far side of our trailer.
             No, not to stop the rain       —for the acorns,
      little brown rivets that could punch through
      a windshield like a fist through the living room
      drywall, mama screaming
      You promised,              not
      in front of the boy. 

      from #72 – Summer 2021

      Lewis Crawford

      “If growing up broke in dirt-poor southern Georgia taught me anything, it’s that people are fragile even in their toughness. From my mother’s heroin addiction to my grandmother working sixty-hour weeks at a nursing home to keep a roof over my head, I’ve seen often how easily things can fall apart. If violence could be any kind of language at all, there’s no doubt that my family would be fluent in it.”

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