Coach’s Kid

Coach Walls started calling me “Tank.” Coach O’Brien said, “J.P. is out to kill.” Dad said nothing, but every time I looked at him — shin-high socks, gray shorts, V-neck tee with chest hair spilling out, whistle dangling around his neck — he was unable to hide his grin.

Run Home

Long-distance running is the dogged refusal to bend to the way you feel. It is the accommodation of pain. If you run long enough, far enough, fast enough, you will carve out a place in yourself where pain can live.

The Psychic Is In

Being exposed to psychics at such a young age was like being raised Catholic or vegetarian: you continue living out these belief systems even after they no longer serve you.

The Normal Force

The waiting room was mostly full of pregnant women that day, and then there were the rest of us. It made me feel sorry for the ultrasound techs, who must spend their days bouncing back and forth between rooms with babies and rooms with not babies.

Sandwoman

My insomnia began just when my baby girl started sleeping through the night. Anytime my head hit the pillow, my heart pounded like a million galloping horses, and I would tremble and sweat and eventually get up and stand on our back porch to beg the gods for peace.

A Thousand Words

A Thousand Words features photography so rich with narrative that it tells a story all on its own.

The Only Ones

Poems About Parents

I failed at wisdom, nurture, / nature, separation, and calm. / I excelled at role model, if what / you wanted was wretched.

— from “Old Mom,” by Jessica Barksdale

What my father didn’t know when he drove / ten-year-old me in the bed of his pickup truck / to gun shows & shooting ranges, initiating me / into the art of the hunt, was that he was actually / teaching me how to write poems

— from “Portrait Of The Poet As A Child,” by Elizabeth Knapp

In my memories my godfather towers / over me, his deep baritone thundering / above us as we sing hymns during Sunday / service.

— from “Small,” by Courtney LeBlanc

My brother calls to say he’ll meet us / for lunch in a few hours, not to wait for him / if he’s late. He’s got to pick up Mom. / And though the crematorium / is near our hotel, he’ll take her ashes home / first.

— from “Waiting In Cars,” by Jackleen Holton

Poem In Which I Fail To Teach My Dog How To Fetch

Here, I call, using the sweet voice the vet psychiatrist recommended, not the hell no one I prefer. Here, I call again.