• Birchwood. Part Two.

    A short work of true fiction.  They were eight, six and eighteen months when we moved in. Alexia, Carolanne and Anngrace. Alexia, the oldest, was eight. Shoulder-length brown hair, olive skin, sharp nose and cheekbones.  Narrow green eyes and a whippet-thin mouth held in a tight line. Tall for her age, she kept her broad… Continue Reading

  • Hypothermia.

    The Greeks understood the allure of misery; pathos an unadulterated linguistic equation of want and suffering, disease and feeling. The etymology of despair and desire a cold water shock causing the victim to transform. Confused, uncoordinated, tongue-tied. We voluntarily inhale and drown.

  • Keepin’ it real.

    In the movies heat is an aphrodisiac. The slow drip of sweat between the breasts; a salty solicitation. Gradually sloping down the belly, following the curve of the thigh. The clear juices of a fruit, ripe for picking. In reality, it’s too damn hot. Touch me before the mercury dips below 85 degrees, and I… Continue Reading

  • Maybe before.

    Maybe my seventeen year-old son will be walking down the street with a bag of Skittles in his hand. Maybe he will have smoked a joint with friends before taking his walk. Maybe he will be wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Maybe he will be talking on his cell phone. Maybe he will hear your steps… Continue Reading

  • Birchwood.

    A short work of true fiction. He was drunk when he swung up onto the curb in front of our house, lurching to a stop.  The right front tire rested on the grass. Bitch. Whore. Slut.  Words slurred and poorly aimed, falling short of their target. She stood washing her truck in the driveway next… Continue Reading

  • Wildings.

    At the beginning of the wild rumpus I made the sounds; heavy on the drumbeats suitable for monsters suitable for mothers of sons released into the wild. Things of rage, intemperate, frantic for a target; escaped from cultivation to an undomesticated landscape seeking nothing in particular, and the world in general. Laid at their feet,… Continue Reading

  • Versimilitude.

    The dresser drawer sticks – the metal handles slap loudly against its wood frame when jerked open; raw materials of the rites of passage, the childish, the criminal, the discarded; taken out of context and placed absentmindedly into storage. Red gift bag with teddy bear inside, red bow around its neck; Batman Sucks t-shirt; script… Continue Reading

  • Reality check.

    Sometimes I think I am an orange peel, floating by Salinger-esque; existing only in my mind. And then I stub my little toe on the corner of the damn black hutch in the kitchen.  

  • Sisters.

    We are the center of gravity. We spin the earth on its axis and hold the planets in alignment. We command the seasons. We till, sow, reap. Our thunder shakes the ground.  Our lightning scorches the earth. Our rain churns the ashes into fertile soil. We eclipse the sun. We wrap our arms around each… Continue Reading

  • Clear cut.

    The pain of labor is nothing. A jagged, brilliant flash that leaves you breathless and begging at three minute intervals. Hewn and made whole in an instant. The pain of motherhood is inconceivable. Cleaved in half again and again. Each time a surprise, unaware as you were, standing by the kitchen window, admiring the sun… Continue Reading