Días de los Muertos

November came in bleak. Still traces of crumbling colors underfoot, and of modern walls sinking into the woods. Talking about death with my students I am on tiptoe, but then my littlest ones tell me wise things, and talk about skeletons they aren’t afraid of, hidden under their own skin. We sat together on the floor, our palms pressed to our hearts, listening to our blood push its way through our veins, feeling our bones – ribs, teeth, wrist.

I have been surviving insomnia and cold with warm sweaters and perhaps nothing more than stubbornness to keep my head above water.




one of an entire series of dilapidated chairs in the woods



shallow / deep


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