Author: Peter Grandbois

We have all woken frightened in the night, listening to thick drops of falling bees,

This isn’t the play I thought I was in, I say, when I go to bed, again, without you. It’s not the part I was first offered, I tell myself as I lie awake.

There is a place where my son waits for me. A place where he dreams himself, where shadows are not sewn fast to the hard ground, where he can name each and every demon riding the waves,