Thursday, March 25, 2021


 Published in Zig Zag Lit Mag, issue 10

I, the oldest sister that December

Barbie arrives in our home, a new baby

me, awestruck, craven

wanting to feel her small body in

my arms

trace her delicate features with my fingertips

tiny feet

a marvel whom I adore

her scent, benign and sweet 

silent—such a good girl

dressed in black and white at the start so as not to garner too much attention

Years after, she trades up for the pink crinoline prom dress and backless plastic heels


A never-ending smile morphs into perpetual smirk

her eyes, dead pool

first, I am seven;

I become thirteen

my adoration melts like plastic shoes held over a flame

“You cannot compare your

dishpan hair to my blonde ponytail.

I am your statuesque mini

you will understand the unachievable— this tiny waist

though you will try like hell to mold, flatten, chisel

hate yourself

eat an apple one day

starve on bowls of cereal the next 

feed on nothingness, drink the air

still, you will never be me

I am the love of antiquarians

vintage, chic, collectible

ruination of your child/woman body.”

I remember daddy saying,

“If only we had kept her in her case,

she would have been worth so much more.”

Wednesday, March 24, 2021

Family of Guns

Swore to god

I’d never own a gun

I’m afraid of them. 


peace signs adorn my home

to own a gun means more violence

promotes more gunnage. 

My friend’s daughter

lives in D.C.

the daughter, super liberal

champion of the weary

out on the streets, 

she knows 

cops can help,

and sometimes they hurt

“It’s coming,” she says

the day when everyone

will need a gun

want a gun 

own a gun

Not me…

until he stood in our kitchen

“Remember that conversation about guns?”

He lifted it from the locked-down case

ultra sleek

almost pretty, dark charcoal-tint  

cold blue steel 

and me, such a sucker for color 

Here, hold it. 

you’ll learn

Fits comfortably 

wrapped in soft, gentle fingers

grip firm

don’t point

Saturday, March 20, 2021

Lady Elaine Farewell

“I’m half sick of shadows,” she said.  (Arthurian legend so lush)

Cloaked in desire

atop a tower of stone 

she wants what

she cannot know 

Invisible carriage attends

her fate as droplets of golden 

tears flow

Longing the one who does 

not exist

exquisite pain shall prevail

hiding her grief beneath

Lancelot’s cape 

breath sighs into mist

as she sails 

Monday, March 15, 2021

Spring Thaw

Let it all melt

may it not snow again for 1000 days

I take it all back

what I said last November about cleansings and blessings 

I lied

Believe me I’m as surprised as you

I should be banished from these  mountains for uttering such blasphemy 

Though this current winter has had its moments, I’ll admit.

Small children ski their first slope

smooth sweet agile 

Buses filled with hopeful skiers 

you will remember the 

‘I’m-so-lucky three-day weekend,’

depart with breathy memory of sweet air and evergreens

why, I bet you thought even the booze tasted better.

Re-entry to your suburbs and cities will be a total drag 

though you’re welcome to return.

But me? 

I’m done

these past virusy months I watched snows fall from a never-ending gray canopy

Those things I thought I loved?

Jotul warmth


Petting cats

Holing up. 

Cooking stew. 

Baking cookies

I never want to taste a winter stew again, I see no reason for parsnips 

I will leave the baking to other  women 

and practice being a woman in my own way. 


a sigh of relief

sun shadows trail across my hands

eyes adapt to February brightness

Vermont - I will abide 

but I haven’t changed my mind

may it all melt

Sunday, March 7, 2021

Everyday Hurts: A 2020 Litany

Isolation I

My heart hurts

I cannot see my precious innocents

who are only four and seven

some days I think they will forget me 

as if I never existed

My grown children are bitter and cynical

this, too, hurts my heart

because I brought them into this hard world

I can never make it up to them

I have been hard myself

though inside I feel as soft as an eight-year-old


I lost my darling cat the other day

I held my face against his

beautiful coat while the vet

administered the sleep drug as I hugged my sweet friend until his life was done

Now I await a new and special drug

my partner needs it even more;

the partner with whom I bicker so restlessly and constantly

you might think we participate in an Olympic competition

I resent him for not one sound reason

yet my heart hurts for hundreds of reasons

sometimes all it takes is a song

and I cry

Maybe my heart is too small and that’s why life seems so painful

I need a bigger heart

Because people have been so mean to each other,

someone has to hold the grief close and not let loose the

guns and tears,

It might as well be me


Isolation II

emails sign off with

“I’m working remotely

here’s my personal number in case you need me” (please don’t need me) 

wish the reader a standard  “have a good day!”, 

knowing the possibility of “have a happy” went out the window months ago. 

With laptop Windows open 

Spotify new age music on rotation 

I gaze out my own front window toward morning’s eastern glare;

pigeons flock to a neighbor’s roof peak 

as she shovels yet another scrim of an impossible heartbreak winter from her driveway, 

groomed so that I simultaneously admire and detest her perfection, mostly because I struggle to complete a mere single task, not to mention being paid for a full day’s work (extra credit for assimilated guilt, please)

I remember former mental vigor, the uncanny and noteworthy speed I displayed in fulfillment of a simple request, and the selfless dedication on which I (used to) pride myself 

“If I Zoom one more time I’m gonna puke” (said as a joke) more time and I’ll have that secret emotional breakdown about which I’ve fantasized as I watch my own tiny face and hag-like neck tucked

within a grid of other tiny faces as we discuss even tinier problems in the face of economic collapse, lives-lost, and heart-aching statistics, all which could have been rendered so avoidable. 


Isolation III

My deepest heartache, though,

resides with the lonely un-rescue-ables 

like my mother.

She lives in what they call a studio apartment

that’s how they get you

*The fancy lobby chandelier

*Nurses on each floor

*24-hour Bingo

way to stave off the doom

There’s a pond outside her window

but the window is high above her wheelchair so she cannot see the sky,

or the trees or pond with ducks that swim there.

More like a prison, her studio is a place

where she cannot even get to the bathroom without a stranger’s help 

Surrounded by the same four walls for 300 days running,

except for the days she was “at hospital” to heal from the virus

she loved the change of scenery, 

then came to hate the loud TV and missed the ducks that she cannot see from her window 


Like a good, conditioned prisoner, she returned,


while my own heart beats 

waiting for another song