No, I'm not talking presidents here. I'm talking birthdays. I turned 45 this week. It's one of those landmark birthdays - not like 50, or course, or even like 40, but it's divisible by five so it's important, right? Truth is, 45 feels pretty much just like 44. Which felt like 43, which felt like... … Continue reading 45 is the new 44
four thirty AM three doors down a crow finds its voice Trying out a lune this week. Posted on non-fic because, well, it's true.
"In Portland," they told us when we moved here, "you don't garden. You beat things back with a stick." I have to say it's true. Year after year, we prune the lilacs. We trim the camellias, we cut back the roses. We wait, every spring, for the hyacinths to stop blooming so that we can … Continue reading May flowers
Tonight I tasted falsehoods in her kisses. I see them, now, in the fall of her hair across my pillow and the angle of her hip. My heart is an overwound spring, an unsigned contract. Sleeping, she is honest: she does not love me.
We are in transit, forever walking between courtesies, forever skirting the edges of our discomfort. You stop to take a breath, to tie your shoe. I urge you on. Look, I say. Home is over the next ridge. No, you say. Home is in our hands. This microstory borrows a line from the poem she … Continue reading Odyssey