I fit the walls in place with pliers, hold them till the glue dries. The saw hums, dust swarms and beats it wings around my shoulders.                     All this dark summer I placed frame                     on frame. From my childhood I remember...
Read More...

The baby is on board. He cannot disagree. He cannot see what is hidden, does not know a thing can hide. He lives the miracle of loaves and fishes. For him there is no there or later. So many presents...
Read More...

Baby-becoming-a-child, where do you go, rising and dropping back like a pendulum? Not joyous as I'd thought after your eager cries at seven a.m. of "Park!" and "Swing!" Instead of reaching out to embrace the tilting world, you retreat into...
Read More...

For an evening we loosen our grip on the girls, their bodies too sweaty to hold. We find we are whole without them, without their fathers who have retreated to the far side of the field. We count our fingers,...
Read More...

He howls the length of the street, pleading with the parted curtains to free him from the executioner who is hauling him home to be drowned in the bath. ...
Read More...

how I loved picking the dried colostrum off my nipples. ready? no, not yet. like peeling glue off my childhood hand, but hitting the air and mixing to a state of something new; a bit of matter suddenly external and...
Read More...