Since I moved away to a bigger city, I seldom come back home. Only for holidays and the anniversaries of a few people’s deaths.
An artist, art writer and guest curator, ELIZABETH JOHNSON began writing reviews for artpractical.com in San Francisco, California, and later covered exhibitions in New York City, Philadelphia, and the Lehigh Valley for theartblog.org. She has written for artcritical.com, Artvoices Magazine, Figure/Ground, PaintersonPaintings.com and DeliciousLine.org. She interviews gallery artists for Gross McCleaf Gallery in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
There were two beds in Little’s room. Put back to back they were as long as his father was tall. The walls were covered in a light floral print.
the queen wasp / opens her first pair of arms. / she convulses in the right chamber like / how nails sanctify a board.
Death was passing through the pores of waiting / like fresh messages from the sky
I recall the prickly pear shrub that never failed to pierce me as I tucked my skinny body behind it, trying to hide…
I am told I was a happy, mischievous kid who smeared peanut butter on walls. Insatiably curious, I would sit down next to strangers on buses and start up conversations. I have heard that I liked to make people laugh. I don’t remember any of this.