Living Well

I used to think “Don’t cry over spilled milk” was a warning not to cry from the beating you got for spilling your milk. My father’s violence at the dinner table was breathtaking. He would grab the offender by the arm and yank her out of her seat.

The Art Of Living

When we learn to stop, we begin to see, and when we see, we understand. Peace and happiness are the fruit of that understanding. In order to be with our friend, a flower, or our co-workers, we need to learn the art of stopping.

Fear Kills

I think I tried to describe what I actually feared. The crushing weight of eternal time. The dizzying space of infinity. I remember he laughed a bit as I brought these things up — so big a subject for such a little kid.

Feast And Famine

This girl is old enough to understand that she is dying. But she is not old enough to matter. This girl is probably already dead. A newspaper photograph of famine is like the light of stars extinguished many years ago.

Holy Ghost

At first I thought it was learning or wisdom. Then it came to me: my husband was a ghost; he had nothing but what he could steal from people. He could take the things they cared about most. It was his great gift.

Solitaire

He would look into the pits the SS left behind and see the grabbing hands and slippered feet, the bloodstained clothes and pale limbs, the wide and frightened eyes covered with a film of dirt.

Selected Stories

I was having sex with a man, and I became frightened. So I got out of bed and covered him with potato chips.

Crossing In Fog

St. Petersburg

Selected Poems