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Some deaths hit you
like a broken bone.
That sharp. That painful.
They stick with you, hurting even when healing,
a dull throb keeping
you from sleeping;
a startled, knifeslash pang when jostled.
And you know that, decades later,
it’ll still be that ache, that pain,
that returns whenever you are standing,
alone, in the melancholy rain.
For Sarah Bird, 3/5/48-8/25/19, with all my love
...
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"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."
(fantasy, novelette) She was thinking complicated thoughts now, about things she was not sure that dryads ever contemplated: what it would be like to take an axe to a sailor, to cut a human down as they had cut her tree down. Sometimes they were so close. But there were so many of them, and she was chained.
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