Michael McFee

Six days a week, this solo pilgrimage across the wildnerness of weedy sloughs and uphill root-snares and dead-lightning limbs to the mailbox, celestial castle on the hill, a shining silver roadside barrel vault with a bloody flag recently lowered and a drawbridge I let down while lifting out my . . . . Continue Reading »

The uplifted unfolded phone casts its lunar digital glow on the face of the young woman pausing to scan its screen before snapping the microelectronics shut the way my mother would close her compact, that slim round clamshell whose hard black plastic shallow halves opened to offer a handy mirror . . . . Continue Reading »