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December 1996

I tried to understand something about forgiveness. I wrote a letter to my dead father, then tore it into small pieces. I carried the pieces around for years before I buried them. I forget where.

Begging

A drug addict, a second-grader, a domestic violence victim

Three Spheres

I have not healed so much as learned to sit still and wait while pain does its dancing work, trying not to panic or twist in ways that make the blades tear deeper and finally infect the wounds.

The Mother Material

A picture hangs on the wall of my study. In it, my mother is kneeling to pose with my brother, my sister, and me. The picture was taken a few months before my mother died, and we are all smiling, cheerful, innocent, unaware of the ways in which our lives are capable of changing.

Under The Covers

An old water tower, an airplane blanket, a diamond pendant in the shape of a heart

Triumphs

Trophies, embroidery classes, office hours

Selected Poems

Notes For Future Tenants

My boyfriend, Tony, tells me he remembers seeing Muddy Waters sitting in a chair on Maxwell Street in Chicago playing the blues. He says it was a Sunday morning and Muddy was playing alone. Now the Maxwell Street market shines with the silver circles of cleaned hubcaps, hanging for sale.

Some Daughters And Sons Never Do Shake The Wisdom Of The Fathers

Taking Sides

Buying a gun; reading Being Peace, by Thich Nhat Hanh; going to the hole for fifteen days