Treasured poetry and bargain prose await all who enter here.
Motherhood
Post-Partum
We are the three swaddled onestrying to learn the walls of our new cocoon.Raising up fists to feel the limitsof our own imaginations.
MoreThird Trimester
The pitter patter of fingers and toesinternal raindropsnaturally quickeninto a newborn downpourof random words.Timid typist,I am sure you are writingsonnetsand novellason the wallsof my womb,and I am jealousof my ownreproductiveness,and your invisible,indelible ink. As it is Mother’s Day weekend, I felt inclined to post a series of poems about motherhood. This one I wrote in […]
MoreThe Way Out
“It’s only spring up to the knees.”My daughter dribbles her ballas the season pulls on its high sockshoping to get put in the game soon.
MoreAn Absent-Minded Weekend
An absent-minded weekend,the rain begins.We left your baby blue blanketin the English Garten.A shriveled plastic bouquetof unused water balloons,unspooled yellow ribbon,and nibbled on plastic keys, thesemade it back from our time among trees,but not your baby blue blankie.
MoreMy Tandem Partner
After read time,before dream time,I curl beside my son,fasten my arm around his chest,safety for his nightly glide. My son will say,“Don’t let go,”as if to fall asleepis to fly,and I’m his tandem partner,the one in chargeof deploying his parachute. “Stay with methis many times.”He holds up fingersthat can’t fully flex,and even after haulingthe backpack […]
MoreThe Mother of Cities
The morning after Christmas, we walked frozen cobblestones across the square; there were abandoned igloos around an empty ice-skating rink, and the smell of last night’s soured chestnut soup. A bumpy car ride began our love affair with the Mother of all Cities. Daughter had an icy morning and needed thawing with lots of hugs […]
MoreMothering
Paper cranes partially foldedfall onto the berry blanket, spreadbelow birch trees, whittled by winter’sfirm stand; black and white,stark creatures of dark and light,they oversee the murky evergreen lake.Weedy waters reflecting my daughter,waves of cool air spinning her weathervane hair,fresh white limbs growing like toenails;her new shoots point straight up in the air.
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A New Constellation
A new constellation was born last night.It tore the skin on the sky.Ripped it really,before bursting free into the void,no longer sheltered in the womb of nebula. Will its brightness matteramong the other countless dotsthat splatter the dead sky?Or did the higher power’s paintbrushsimply get a bit too weton its way to glossing another masterpiece? […]
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