by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 13, 2026 | Poetry
I’ve aged even in dreams.But not you, my boundless soulso alluring in your constancy, turning toward mewith the expression of a college love I’d nearly forgotten, turning in orange light with one shoulder to the shadow of your back room.In my sleep the dead come to...
by Jennifer Landretti | May 22, 2025 | Essays
I live in an old neighborhood near a small downtown, just beyond the reach of the last parking meters. Any of the houses here would look stately and haunted perched on a hill somewhere, but as it is they’re all serried together down the long city blocks: most gables...
by Jennifer Landretti | May 20, 2025 | Essays
One morning I saw a stick in a tree. Curved and broken, it lay across a forked bough about six feet out from the trunk. The buds had yet to open so I could see the whole of it, black against a red sky. The tree itself, a young ash, stood in a park near my home. Late...
by Jennifer Landretti | Dec 11, 2022 | Essays
July 6 A wet morning. The clouds scud by, looking dark and broken. They have that startled watchfulness of things flying past. I hunch on the gravel lot, making coffee. Six scoops, and one for the pot. Across the ravine, the yellow grasses of Bear Butte lift into fog:...
by Jennifer Landretti | Dec 1, 2022 | Essays
I hunch in the porch shadows, feeling for the rough side of my key. After a few exploratory taps, I ease the blade into the lock then turn to face the sky. At half past four in the morning, the stars are still out. They winkle in the branches. I begin my walk, about...
