Tag Archives: dad

the bones of this land

Posted on October 25, 2016 by Kat Heatherington

i grew up on a mining claim in the mountains of central arizona. bear with me. i grew up in a nice-enough house on the poor side of a small town in the mountains of central arizona. i walked to … Continue reading →

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the perseids fall

Posted on August 16, 2016 by Kat Heatherington

the perseids fall. the weather breaks, sharp heat turning to sudden wind and sometime rain. i stand at the kitchen sink, scrubbing what remains of your life. a photo of the most beautiful work your hands ever made. the thing … Continue reading →

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like the light

Posted on January 21, 2016 by Kat Heatherington

i am almost twilight i am almost home i am cracked by a thousand birds crossing the darkening sky. you are a silhouette you are a stormcloud you are half of every strand of DNA in my body. the storm … Continue reading →

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