by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 1, 2018 | 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 | Mar 1, 2017 | 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 | Jul 1, 2015 | Essays
I once worked in a restaurant where a Dutch Masters box sat above the coffee machine. It had been there for years, a catch-all for earrings and lost keys. I looked at it every day. On a side panel were those six men in pilgrim clothing. One of them—the fellow seated...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 1, 2009 | Essays
My two boys, ages three and six, love a good bike ride and I take them out often. We travel on a single vehicle that includes a bicycle, a tag-along, and a trailer. My boys call this elaborate rig the “Burley Train.” Come Friday evenings, if the weather is fair, we...
by Jennifer Landretti | Mar 1, 2007 | Essays
The way to work is behind the book factory. The parking is free for anyone willing to walk a few blocks to where the office buildings begin. Some days I see a woman up on the loading bay, leaning on the bricks and working at the pace of the morning light. She is there...
