Episoder
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at my kitchen sink, the bathroom upstairs clogged with family from out of town spending the night after the wake and the after-wake—cold beverages have been consumed and comfort food, leftovers bulging both the fridge and the minifridge. In our fifties, both half-asleep half-awake, we face each other. My sister’s smile foams white down her... Read more »
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Manglende episoder?
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Seems like a long time Since the waiter took my order. Grimy little luncheonette, The snow falling outside. Seems like it has grown darker Since I last heard the kitchen door Behind my back Since I last noticed Anyone pass on the street. A glass of ice water Keeps me company At this table I... Read more »
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Wind and the sound of wind— across the bay a chainsaw revs and stalls. I’ve come here to write, but instead I’ve been thinking about my father, who, in his last year, after his surgery, told my mother he wasn’t sorry—that he’d cried when the other woman left him, that his time with her had... Read more »
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Someone dragged a hide-a-bed onto the sand last night. This morning there it sits, empty as an open clam, clearly slept in, face to face with the Pacific. Less graceful than a Massey-Ferguson and less expected. Even the dogs, after marking it theirs, shake their heads. Still, I recognize the impulse, the urge to reach... Read more »
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For that free Grace bringing us past great risks & thro’ great griefs surviving to this feast sober & still, with the children unborn and born, among brave friends, Lord, we stand again in debt and find ourselves in the glad position: Gratitude. We praise our ancestors who delivered us here within warm walls all... Read more »
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But I, too, want to be a poet to erase from my days confusion & poverty fiction & a sharp tongue To sing again with the tones of adolescence demanding vengeance against my enemies, with words clear & austere To end this tumultuous quest for reasonable solutions to situations mysterious & sore To have the... Read more »
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I never thought we’d end up Living this far north, love. Cold blue heaven over our heads, Quarter moon like chalk on a slate. This week it’s the art of subtraction And further erasure that we study. O the many blanks to ponder Before the night overtakes us once more On this lonely stretch of... Read more »
