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
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?
Good friends are hard to find. Some friendships are centred around convenience; we build attachments to those around us simply because they are there.
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...
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.
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...
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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.
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.
I am borne of a landscape of freckles. My mother, her father, his mother: the Williams and Shepherds, the English and Welsh. The bounty of peach farms, peace roses and quiet spirituality.
This poem was once a bird | An eagle in fact | Whose span of wing | And accurate sight | Was the stuff that legend makes.
At the Dreamers Writing Farm, we'll be offering writing retreats, self-directed residencies, writing workshops, and general accommodations.
I’m holding your drawing. It’s more of a map, really, a magic-marker rendering of your family’s redesign. Embellished stick figures rise...
Common as pennies, they mob the feeder, empty it in a day— nothing left for finches, wrens, chickadees— birds from the genus Passeridae, meaning flutterer.
These poems, (Siblings, Digging, and Reflection,) are a representation of some of the intense emotions I’ve experienced over the past few years, following the stillbirth of our first daughter, Braylie.
They say that life has a way of giving you exactly what you need when you least expect it. That when one life ends, another is born.
There are days, sometimes weeks, when you don’t even think about it. Then, one day, in front of the bathroom mirror, you face the glaring reminders. Three scars.
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