Sunday, April 1, 2018

Spork in the Road

Roads need not diverge 
not like this: we can eat 
soup and salad with the same 
useful tool. We can eat 
away at each other using 
blunt utensils when cutlery 
is inaccessible, unwashed—a broken dishwasher,
disposable flatware
                                                               for us
my love.
                         Leave it
                                                              for me.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Cup Tower

You called it your “life’s
 work,” the tower you built
from paper cups the day before
you turned
eleven, and we laughed until we saw
it had fallen
down the next morning
                                       like mine.

Monday, March 5, 2018

How She Seems

Alpaca threaded over her fingers,
looped on the needles: cast on too loosely,
just as she grabs hold with too little strength
to the limbs that would protect her, preserve
her from coming apart at the seams the way
these mittens will when her daughter puts
them on and plays harder, pulls tightly,

wanting warmth, when her mother was not. 

Sunday, March 4, 2018

My Body Tells a Joke

It is humerus
how legible I became 
when you broke me. Each 
hairline fracture tells
the story of how I fell.

Thursday, March 1, 2018

A woman after a woman after a woman is power (to misquote Atwood)

For Women's History Month, here are 31 women writers who have made me think, cry, smile, write, read...women who have made me, period:

1. Margaret Atwood
2. Edna St. Vincent Millay
3. Aphra Behn
4. Frances Brooke
5. Virginia Woolf
6. H.D.
7. Zora Neale Hurston
8. Christina Rosetti
9. Christine de Pisan
10. Margaret Cavendish
11. L.M. Montgomery
12. Louisa May Alcott
13. Celeste Ng
14. Tana French
15. Zadie Smith
16. Louise Erdrich
17. Emily Dickinson
18. Emily Bronte
19. Charlotte Lennox
20. Charlotte Bronte
21. Zilpha Keatley Snyder
22. A.S. Byatt
23. Jesmyn Ward
24. Madeline L'Engle
25. Sylvia Plath
26. Roxane Gay
27. Natasha Tretheway
28. Kate Di Camillo
29. Lorine Niedecker
30. Jessica Valenti
31. Jeanette Winterson

Wednesday, February 28, 2018

That Kind of Girl

You swim on borrowed fins,
mythology dirtier than algae,
the kind chlorine cannot kill. You believed
the tales,
the scales that
weighed you
down, with their promises of

Hans Christian Anderson

[nothing in
death and a happy ending].

Anchors and buoys
in blue or green
pull you
down, and you
the bottom of the pool,
breathless, weak:

as a fat man in a speedo laps you.

Monday, February 26, 2018

From My Finger, to the Winter Wind

You bit me
The bruise
than I expected,
than before. 
You’d think I’d learn
not to stand up to you,
not to put my body
in between
your breath,
hard and cold. 
You’d think I’d learn
not to expect
a temperate response. 
Here I am, though,
                        hardly              hardy
to be
a match for your coldness.
I thought I could
alter that mercurial
Skin peels off
and exposes me,
for the still-frigid, still

frightening bursts.