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The Fig Tree

Because of the virus, we moved to Sonoma, into a little house we have on the top of a mountain, with its gnarly garden...

Diagnosis

In the beginning there was no name for the soft slippery thing inside me — but it demanded to be held. Like a child that could...

with what letters remain

“...because even the soul is a creature...” - Meister Eckhart you’re here, telling me how a disease survives in saliva & blood & water & it’s swift mutation to rancid wine...

The New York Times Publishes 1,000 Names

I don't know about you, but I'm ready for something to be different. This staying at home, not knowing what's going to happen next, worrying, not...

Covid’s Metamorphoses

I know—I know, sorry! Sorry. It’s this basement desk, this heavy rain, that has me thinking of that wet poem, book one’s great flood, the threat...

The Silver Lining of the Black Box

I teach to Black Boxes. At the beginning of the school year teaching psychology to high school seniors on Zoom was intimidating and confusing. Black...

Aspiration

Crowned a week before Easter. It is spring. The spirit might have whispered in your ear, as with Mary; the virus could have entered though the eye, through other openings. Your uvula once pink and light as...

Sixteen Paris Crossings or Art in the Time of Crisis

When the Museum of Fine Arts re-opened in February, I went directly to Gallery 232 in the Art of the Americas to see The...

In the Realm of Fear

I whisper, Heal us, heal us hope my words find a prayer, imagine it rising like mist— how easy it used to be as a child. The ritual...

Thinning to Fable

Inside the house no snow No wood of footbridges dark with a staying wet in a forest black with green and lore with white But burning hands under...

The School of Working Women: A Letter to My Mother

Dear Mom, Greetings from Seattle. It’s going on ten months without seeing you, but I swear I hear and smell you in the pre-lucid hours...

The Plague Year Begins and Half Life: Two Poems

The Plague Year Begins Outside the world blooms without us as we picnic alone on whatever was left when the sirens started a burning in the lungs. How...