I dust my mother’s shiny black Singer, her foot on the pedal, the hum she’d retreat to, the needle and bobbin. —Elaine Sexton (excerpt from “Enclosures”) This is a dirge encrypted in things, porcelain thimbles, seams sewn over myths, facts resting with fiction, exposed with their fine contradictions. —Elaine Sexton (excerpt from “Encryption”) While out [...]![]()
