Grown-ups drinking with friends – a barbecue in may. it’s the first summer weekend since we got the back garden to host in. meat moist as soap on a plate by the grill. I laid it out. we bought too many sausages stickered in lidl and cheap. and too many cheap beers – people always […]
they all write so well,
but then, they have space
to stretch out in. american
poets have it better
than anyone else. all that undiscovered
country could make anyone
make anything so easily. all that sky…
poetry: It’s easy to say from outside Read More »
Epiphany [not in the sense manifestation of Christ to Gentiles as represented by Magi (Matthew 2:1-12)] Despite Jewish law’s at least soft prohibition as a physician plus human I’ve been all-in about end of life thoughtful autonomy for those of us who are considered to have terminal ills. But since around block witness to state-certified
Citrus My friend often stops by at lunch to talk about our kids–how hard it is and how lovely. It usually happens, because I love them, that I’m eating an orange, or a mandarin, Sumo, blood orange, temple–one of that whole bodacious family of juicy mamas, and I separate a section or two bursting with
Liquid Courage Rhonda finds the perfect purple ball on the rack that fits her slim fingers snugly, hefts it skyward with one hand, gel-lacquered nails disappearing into the drilled holes. “Remember this color,” she says. “I want my eyes to be this color.” I nod, pulling out the little wire-bound notebook I keep in my
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Guess Who Is your person wearing a hat? Mark asks, leaning his metal folding chair against the cabin wall with a creak, steepling his fingers behind his head. I’m looking at the sunbeams streaming through the open windows, the gauzy curtains flapping lazily in late July breeze, terns on the wing over the lake, my
Cotquean I’m sewing up tears in my boxing gear: a needle, black thread and bachelor stitches. I’m cross-legged on the bathroom floor while Pharaoh splashes in the tub beside me, a pink and laughing treasure two years long. I ran his bath, undressed his happy body. Now I wash his hair, speak quietly through the
I don’t want to die but if i do I hope not to burn in Hell forever but burn in Heaven, be on fire for Jesus as our Sunday School teacher says it, burning the very best way she sings out so Sunday after church I returned to our classroom, empty then but for God
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Bookmarks It might be a receipt, a bus ticket, or if you need that ticket to return on, the foil paper ripped from a half-packet of gum, an old hairclip, something humdrum, a pen, or even, in desperation, a tissue, slightly used (do not judge them) or whatever else can be foraged from the handbag’s
The Standards Line Beneath ice-tipped oaks, half-angry, amused, wandering beside a party of the beautiful — women in evening sheath and wrap coats, Chloe satchels, furs; men at their MacAllan and Maduros. I come upon her, reading Ferrante on a daybed, Manhattan in a chilled tumbler on the floor. Barefoot, lost in lyrics of Bewitched,
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