Sanctuary, and other poems
I’m a blondish plucked chicken underneath my burgundy scarf
though I thought I was bold and tough when I cut my hair short weeks ago ready with wigs and peacock-bright coverings
Stories Poems Essays
Oh Emma; Slow Dancing
If Lady Liberty could open her copper and iron lips and formulate words, would she emit French, a French accent? Would she say your fatigué, your pauvre, your huddled masses?
I Will If You Will
Good friends are hard to find. Some friendships are centred around convenience; we build attachments to those around us simply because they are there.
The Nurse
“Nice deep breaths, Mrs. Crandall. In through your nose, out through your mouth…” Helen Crandall was becoming more aware. She was flat…
The Transient Nature of Feelings
I am on the second floor of the De Young Museum in San Francisco, California, sitting on a marvelous curved, but slightly uncomfortable, wooden bench…
In the Family Room
Before they leave, his mother and sister and him, for what will turn out to be their last visit to the hospital, Jake, twelve and a half years old, sits in his father’s office in the basement.
The Storyteller
Two children picked their way down the curve of a beach, in the clear air that follows a storm. The cyclone had strewn junk across their path…
in the two hour sunset
in the two hour sunset after the eight hour evening I become a goop puddle in your passenger seat. you play that song and I don’t know which words are coming next.
Metaplasia and other poems
Some human cells adapt to toxic stress by physically becoming other cells. Smoke enough, and tall columns become flat lung lines. Turn 16, and girl lining becomes home-in-waiting. The word for this is metaplasia. It is supposed to be temporary.