The poem was still pulsing…
Out I could not venture | Because it was an ungodly hour | The hour of sirens and vagabonds. | In the morning | The poem was still pulsing…
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We’re here, now.
Two powerful poems by Reinekke Lengelle: “People ask me how I’m doing, and I say, good, he’s still here. He’s here now. We’re here, now.”
The Window
The boy pulls his chair up to the window. He does this every Wednesday night to watch the woman in the pink towel in the apartment across the tiny alley.
The Needles
I relax my hands and remember that, when we work together, we know what to do. They guide me to the right place without fail, and slip in easily with a sigh.
Blogging and Autobiography
Autobiography and Blogging: Is a personal blog autobiography? This is a question that arose while I was studying writing and literature.
Gelato and Frost
It is a sweltering night the first time I am unfaithful. One of those late July nights where the city clings to you. Hollywood is on fire.
Poetry and Healing with Roger Sippl
The Sweater: The doctors tell me the main tumor in my chest is the size of a softball. She uses a double strand of yarn and thin knitting needles…
In Memoriam
“Alison, Daddy died today,” spoke my mom. She had positioned me on a wicker-backed bar stool in the center of my kitchen…
Incomplete Woman
My last partner threw me away after my legs wouldn’t open for him. He didn’t explicitly say that of course; he said something about a lack of connection.