All Articles by Danielle Palmer

Grandma Allen

Her arms were supple and reminded me of

the soft bread dough I pinched as it swelled


in her kitchen. She pressed butter-covered

marshmallows and rice into teddy bear molds I can


still taste, and nothing now compares. Colorful jars

adorned her kitchen countertop, bottled pears


of pink, of green, of blue. She claimed color

made them taste better, but I still despised the grit.


Her trinkets enchanted me. She told me

they forgot to give her ragdolls faces. Her


television glowed from down the hall, as the pretty lady

dropped blood on the snow and named her


baby Snow White. She let me open a special suitcase

to dress antique Barbie, until I left her out once


and she was gone.


*Series of haiku
A tribute to the soldier buried at Camp Floyd Cemetery, Fairfield, Ut

vertical white stone
a shield deeply indented
curving words imply

loneliness glimmers
forgot in winter’s frost, cold
like steel, alone, lost

light cracks across grass,
day breaks like brittle bones, heat
burns in mourning sun

warmth caresses rock
moisture thaws in welling beads,
tears spill, overflow

dew drops dangle, drip
glide, arching slowly then slip
caught, embraced by U—

You were all you could have been.


Not just a regular routine

but saying goodbye

over and over and over.

You enter the dark room

to go on vacation—

sometimes it is days

until morning.

We lie with eyes closed,

Au Revoir, and we’re

running and running and running,

miles at a time. Running


away from life,

only to return again

when we

open our