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Window Sunshine

Bipolar, Diagnosis – Two Poems

The doctor adjusts his glasses, tells me the news. There isn’t much else. I leave the muted-colored office and beat my hands on the steering wheel.

The Other Eleven Months of the Year

I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) in 1991 at thirty years-old, following my second suicide attempt. Individuals who have BPD lack the ability to…

Annie

Caleb was a sweet boy, with black hair and freckles, whose left leg was in a brace, causing the other kids to taunt him without mercy. Caleb’s best…

Little Stars

David and I were still awake at 3 am. The moon wasn’t full, that wasn’t the reason, but the Perseids were doing their August trick, showering meteors like streaks of sleep dust from the sandman, mocking us.

The Oppressor and the Oppressed Within

Days shy of my fortieth birthday, attended a class with master writing teacher Laleh Khadivi: in San Francisco at Christina Garcias’s Las Dos Brujas. A new meaning emerged…

Grey House

The Grey House Didn’t Speak

No people remain to lift their hands in farewell. Home does not speak. It does not call out our names as we move up the steps onto the plane. It does not call out as if to say…

Catalpa Tree

Catalpa Tree

Go down the gravel road past the farm where a family lived in a boxcar, past the field with longhorn cattle When you hear donkeys bray, you are almost there.