I sat with the note in my lap, stunned and glad to be alone in the kitchen. The laundry gave me something to do with my hands while I settled my mind.
A few feet away, a first-gen Lincoln Town Car had taken up residence at the curb. It wore vanity Idaho plates celebrating someone named JELLI.
“Let the stone tell you what it wants to be and allow it to become that thing,” the old man whispered. Isabel peered through the loupe and bent over her grandfather’s work table.
I wanted to write the book that I’d been looking for my entire life and never found.
“DuRant’s poems skirmish at the fraught edges of language, winning ground page by page “in a battle to claim turf where tongues can hold their own.” ”
Once, I was your other heartbeat, your deepest
center. You were the world I was and knew.
After—all your life—I thought I was unlike
you: the you I liked, and otherwise.
by Lisa Peet
“I’m really heartened to learn that I’m not the only person who feels many different ages inside myself.”
My novel has shifted to become its own creature—it’s no longer something that belongs only to me; now that it’s out there it’s finding a shape of its own.