Hitching a ride, trusting a partner, marrying the same person three times
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Teetle Clawson lives in Portland, Oregon, and rises early to start her day in the dark. She’s currently writing a memoir.
It was too quiet: no bellowing of elk, no call of owls. As I opened the front door, I could smell the beef stew I’d left simmering on the stove, but there was no music, and our dog Neva did not greet me.
In the early seventies / Greg and I moved back to the land. / Here, no National Guard, no protests / on the steps of Bank of America, / no hash to smuggle into Isla Vista.
My husband killed himself in our kitchen, / a wide-open room with a forty-gallon barrel / of water standing close to the old woodstove.