Breadcrumbs

Michael T. Young I keep believing in the fresh start, keep turning back as if to begin, but there’s no going past the push of hunger. As a child, I filled jugs at a natural spring, my hands rich with the scent of moss, the rocks gurgling, the smell of wet soil saturating the air… More

Scrawl

Michael T. Young He likes to repeat to himself a phrase from a Keats letter: I will clamber through the clouds and exist. It steadies him like leaning against trees, or brewing coffee to a thick brown resistance. It’s that kind of private refusal that helps him push on, dress the children for sleep, clean… More