Here, eroded, sometimes the light strikes each step of your memory to an odd angle, a beamwind and pulls you back into childhood like a gator pulls a victim into dark water.
Here you pass crumbling brick houses, hemlocks bare, and empty convents as a spirit paths through menshaped snow, the spirit you know again under the uncut hair of the willows—
so marvelous and dangerous to behold. If you crawled through the hole in the wall you would die
or be happy forever in the light's honeycomb-ice waiting for you.
—Judith Roney
Judith Roney has created and taught writing workshops for adults challenged by mental illness in conjunction with the University of Central Florida’s Literary Arts Partnership. Her fiction, essays, and poetry have appeared in numerous publications.Field Guide for a Human was a 2015 finalist in the Gambling the Aisle chapbook contest. Her poetry collection, According to the Gospel of Haunted Women, received the 2015 Pioneer Prize. A memoir piece, “My Nickname was Frankenstein,” is nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She confesses to an obsession with the archaic and misunderstood, dead relatives, and collects vintage religious artifacts and creepy dolls. Currently she teaches poetry at the University of Central Florida, and is an assistant poetry editor for The Florida Review. More information can be found at www.judithroney.com