In the heart of winter, I contemplate my winter’s heart. Frigid days bring sinking into slush puddles against the icy wind, starting the day with cold feet, jumping into a dark car only to join the cattle call of the highway. I have to refuse this heart. My heart is elsewhere. I am consumed by the memory of a rose. Take a rose petal in your hand. Stroke it. Lift
One late August morning, I found myself on a rugged dirt road on the east side of San Pedro Mesa, high above the Sanchez Reservoir. I was with a man I had met not two hours before. I had set up this appointment with him to discuss the concerns involving the feral and abandoned horses that roamed this part of the San Luis Valley. We met in a public place,
If you’re all alone on Thanksgiving Day, with no turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy, your heart aching from loneliness and neglect, and your shame keeping you from making even one single phone call to some relative who is surrounded by devoted loved ones, just keep in mind that, for what it’s worth, we’re together in this poem, sharing these words. Sleepy late-afternoon football chatter will fade away, but this conversation will last
I was four years old, and we lived on the top floor of a fisherman’s house in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. I could see the ocean from my window, and our landlord often brought us fresh seafood. My father, a USAF radar operator, worked lots of seven day weeks and double shifts because of the Cold War and Korea. My mother was stuck at home, alone with no friends or family
“The late humorist James Thurber wrote a fable set in a medieval court, and he has the Royal Astronomer report that all the stars are going out! It turns out that he is simply going blind. I am probably making the same mistake.” – Dan Wakefield, ed., Kurt Vonnegut Letters, Delacorte, 2012 I needed to be sure to get up at five this morning to drive a friend to a
The carnival is sick freedom, something less, passing through town, barking forbidden desires, promising an untranslatable ticket to the show. Our parents encouraged this. They wanted us to rub up against something different, strange and welcome, but only for an instant, in the blink of an eye. “Love but don’t touch,” they said, “and don’t admit your love. It’s just a passing fancy.”
