Tag Archives: poem
I dreamed I had my dog in my arms and was crossing an angry river. Kali wasn’t moving. And I should have been scared — the water above my breasts — but she wasn’t heavy and I wasn’t cold. Still, I woke up crying.
I … Read more
We were watching Once Upon a Time, when G said, “She’s sad because she’s evil.”
“What if she’s evil because she’s sad?”
“She should stop being evil and then she’d be happy.”
“Is that how it works?”
“Maybe not. Catwoman is only evil sometimes. And … Read more
My junior year in college, I discovered the video library at my university. I had a New Yorker subscription and I’d been making notes about movies I had to see, directors I had to study. Scarface, Mean Streets, Reservoir Dogs, French New Wave, Bonnie & … Read more
“Wanna interview me?”
“Sure. Oh, you mean, now?”
“I don’t get time to think about my questions?”
“No, you do.”
“HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE YOU TO WRITE A BOOK? ………….. Jill, that’s the first question.”
“Oh, we’re not interviewing on video?”
“No. You … Read more
I prefer redemption stories. I am finally at that age older women assured me of. That age when I will mother-figure the fuck out of you. Where my first response is tenderness. You beauty. You beauty.
I understand, at last, that the hurdle was my … Read more
When I was a kid, I practiced everything in front of the mirror. I practiced singing, and teaching, and convincing. I debated my image. I debated the room around me. I debated my expressionless stuffed animals. I sang into my pink plastic brush. I danced. … Read more
You sluts, you whores, you merry men
dropping pills of aspirin
from between your knees.
Engaged in wanton promiscuity.
I swear to you you’ll burn, you wait,
you’ll ooze from parts you flaunt and shake.
I used to curse you, reprobates,
tempting sin like coiled … Read more
“About suffering they were never wrong, the old masters;” I love this Auden poem. I love it with the various stages of my heart. I loved it when I read it first in college, and later, and each time after that. I loved it as … Read more
“Sometimes,” she says, her voice an old woman going uphill, “I wish you had a filter.”
I want to tell you about front porches. The way they inhabit longing. Your heart is this. This swing on this porch and a woman sitting there waiting.
I’m … Read more