Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘parent’

The Day Before Graduation

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on May 27, 2026| 2 Comments »


for Vivian
 
Already she knows terrible things happen. 
Already she knows the pleasure of scrambling
in the woods at night with friends and singing
too loud and making bad choices that are sometimes
exactly the right choices. She knows sobs and 
silliness. She knows how much humans can hurt
each other. She knows how a touch or a tender
word erases nothing but creates its own plot of trust. 
 
There was a time when my job was to protect her,
filling her pages with beauty and courage and honesty.
Now my job is mostly to love her, to give her her own pen. 
Because terrible things happen. And she is the one now 
who shapes her story. Every writer knows, we write 
what we know—and what we can’t ever know. 
I pray what emerges is the impossible—an irrational,
deep rooted love for this difficult, glorious world. 

Read Full Post »

Four from Chicago

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on August 22, 2017| Leave a Comment »

 

 

 

One When My Grandfather was Still Alive

 

 

in the subway tunnel

the arching notes of Danny Boy

on a violin—

I walk slower to meet the train

I arrive twelve years ago

 

One Courage

 

 

hearing the moan on the other side

or is it a low laugh—

still choosing to open the door

 

 

One Near Totality

 

 

eclipse behind the clouds

so much beauty we never see—

sunflower blooming in a distant field

 

 

 

 

One New Time Signature

 

my father a song

I used to think I knew—

this morning, I hear

the same song with new ears,

or is it that the tune has changed—

all day I hum it,

all day I feel lucky

to hear him humming back

Read Full Post »

One Other Scene from Summer Camp

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on July 26, 2017| 2 Comments »

 

 

 

empty space

at the dinner table—

a flower without its petals

Read Full Post »

In the Current

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on March 14, 2015| 1 Comment »

I pin him, my boy,
on his back on the floor
in the late morning sun
in the quiet kitchen
and hold him there
in the warm orange light
beneath my weight
and threaten to tickle
his belly, his sides,
and I know that he knows
that if he says stop, I
will stop, but oh,
the sweetness of what if,
how it ripens in these seconds
right before the plunder
that doesn’t happen,
our eyes locked and bright,
the morning a boat
we delight in rocking,
knowing that even if it capsizes
we both know how to swim.

Read Full Post »