A girl watches her father through the screen door, a pack of Kools and short glass of whisky beside him. He faces the fields and the woods beyond him. Bobwhites call in the distance. He calls back to them, a high mournful whistle, cigarette smoke curling around his buzzcut, tight ears shining in the porch light.
After sojourns in the Deep South, upstate New York, Colorado, and Baltimore, Trish Harris now teaches and writes in Arizona. Her poems have appeared in The Cortland Review, Willows Wept, Toronto Quarterly, and The Windsor Review; her short fiction and creative nonfiction have been published in McSweeney’s online, Blue Plate Special, and Brevity.