Camille S. Williams

When I was pregnant with my first child, I asked my mother about labor. This woman who gave birth to her first on her own kitchen table (her mother and mother-in-law in attendance) hardly looked up from her work to say, “It’s not that . . . . Continue Reading »

Sympathetic accounts of abortion sustain our cultural . . . . Continue Reading »

In that house of quiet dying, through still sheers that turn the day to gray, only two chairs of six are sat upon, the bed no longer shared. She smiles, a 5 x 10 on the television top, he laughs, a young man upon the mantle. But, air unmoving from dining room to kitchen old woman watches TV alone, . . . . Continue Reading »

Lying when you know you’re lying, like stuffing from a cushion, integrity gone makes a sad hole. —Camille S. . . . . Continue Reading »