Poems

Mid-way through a week of walking the vales and fells of the Lakes | My new friend Judy asks: | What do your parents do?

I hold the paper in my hand. My case worker is friendly, not callous or distant. I ask him to decode the letter I have received in the mail. I think it says what I hope it says…

and every day my mother, who is every day a mother, looks down defeated by her hands the hands that are her mother’s hands the gnarled strega nonna branches

Run. Twirl. Swing. Dash out the door. Hop around squares. Kneel on the floor. Jump through two ropes that are turning. All as natural as a bird taking wing.

What I want the surgeon to know is not included in the pre-op interview, where my life of pain has been reduced to color-by-number shades: a lavender 4 to get out of bed, an orange 7…

Stepping out of autumn-chilled water, sun still warming my bare skin, I glance back at the lake wondering, will this be my last swim of the season?

What brings you here? I ask. My name badge tugs at my thin floral blouse asking me the same question. My name has sorrow…

apprehension caused by awareness that a crucial detail has been left out | fear of putting into words things felt intuitively | fear that …

It was an accident, he didn’t mean to, I forced him, I provoked, I should have kept my distance, should have shut up when told…