Author: Angele Ellis

still seeking a hill to die on my father at ninety-two  

Climate Change In winter, my father climbed our steeply pitched roof with a shovel, almost as dexterous as a goat. We kids dug endless marble tunnels warm as igloos

Ex Officio   You were sitting beside me in the law school corridor young again, as vivid as your infamous blue eyes. Mark, I wanted to say, we’ve been divorced

Elsewhere All the balloons that touched the ceiling now sink low enough for the children to bat them like inflatable clowns. Life retreats to the corners. Helium cheers

High Iron –for E.A. At a hundred fifty feet, I’m comfortable as in a living room chair. Then it gets harder—the world shrinking to a map gaped at from an