August 27, 2016
By Ana Portnoy Brimmer
“I am the memory of…” the room filled with the barely audible sound of pen on paper, the poets sitting around the table reacting, manifesting, to the writing prompt. Smiles, lip biting, furrowed brows, and deep sighs went around the table.
Mariposa read the next writing prompt. “I feel most alive when...”