Archive | July 2012

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Free to be you and me (but please don’t make fun of my kid)

Nothing to get the week kicked off right like gender identity politics, a macho, conservative culture, and an almost-four-year-old boy, right?  Hold on while I have another sip of my cocktail tea. I’ve been doing this parenting thing for a few years now and I still don’t feel like I have a great handle on […]

My (imaginary) date with Edgar Allan Poe, pt. 1

Up close, Poe was much softer and more feminine that I had been expecting.  He had full lips and large doe eyes.  I was surprised, pleasantly so, as all the pictures I had seen of him made him look at his most benign like Napoleon and at his worst like a drug-crazed, disheveled lunatic coming […]

A Sense of Home

You, you smell like home Wherever that may be A mix of cinderblock and salt air Canyon brush and jasmine Eucalyptus and redwood Dogwoods and daffodils Like snow melting and ground warming You smell like metal lockers and those awkward teenage moments When I wished with everything to take back what I just said Like […]

Fragment

From the archives: Jarred Like when you drove the car into a ditch And we both realized we were okay Blood pulsing through my fingers, throbbing in my temples Pooling on my lip where I bit down, anticipating Brain buzzing It’s been so long since I felt that Alive Makes me reach for the keys

My (imaginary) date with William Faulkner

This is my first in what will likely be a self-indulgent series of literary boyfriends, and girlfriends. I had mentioned at my last critique group that I could use some mentoring by Hemingway because, in the words of one of my reviewers, “It’s great. But, there’s just too much.” Hemingway would have cut that excess […]

Dia de los Muertos

archival poetry: Will my sugar skull be enough to make you want to return just for this one night Will the sound of laughter and clinking glasses be enough to draw you out from where you are What if the laughter is tinny and hollow because the celebration is too soon or too far after […]

fragment

I lick your wound. The salty sadness of it, The rank weepiness of it. I lick and I lick And from the outside it looks Maternal, Or at least generous and caring. But I am eating your pain. I feel it coursing And I want more. I lick And you think it soothes. To have […]