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Once
Writer of fiction, poetry, and nonfiction going head-to-head with womanhood and trouble.
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Mar 15, 2010
The old green couch in the living room--dog hair from the black lab. Dishevelment. Close to the stereo, but no music plays. The stillest of life--counterpoise the yelling in my head no no no no no and the terrible quiet of coming to terms with my son's condition in utero until it all goes white noise: the loud static, nothing air of the judges' box. Sitting, those moments before we had lost L. but knew that we would, before he was born, holding on my husband's hand as if we could clasp ourselves together against the truth. Making him promise me that we would try again to get pregnant and bring a child out into the world. Even in my hysteria, I made it a promise that was safe for him to answer, impossible for him to refuse. Promise me yes, but we could decide, later that it wasn't the... Continue reading
Posted Feb 24, 2010 at Once
Months ago, that story came across the wires about a six-year-old boy held aloft in a silver balloon, stolen up into the wind, careening across the landscape. You were there, too, caught, like me--leaning close to the computer screen, listening out for the evening news, honing in on that image of that balloon, twisting, bobbing, moving too fast against the bright sky. For some watching, there was the excitement of the chase. That drama: What would happen next? For me there was only terror. Even when the child was in the air, I thought, he was already gone. There was no saving him. The reports that came quickly in 10 to 15 minute increments and then slower, stretching across hours, seemed to confirm that the chance of rescue was slim. The balloon flew too high, with the potential to go even higher and drift for days. There were risks to... Continue reading
Posted Feb 15, 2010 at Once
All day I have my head in work. I buckle down with intention. I pull library books off the shelves by the handful. I sit down in a ragged chair at a table in the library. I turn off my wireless and stack those books up like little castles on either side of me, blocking myself in, to make myself write. Why I thought I could avoid thinking by thinking, I don't know. Especially when I take William Stafford into my hands, a poet who has arrived several times in my life to tell me things that I needed to hear--not, mind you, necessarily that I was ready to hear. Stafford has been dead now 16 years. I wish he weren't. I could tell him thank you for this, in person. For allowing the tears I've otherwise been swallowing back into my throat before they can show from my eyes,... Continue reading
Posted Sep 10, 2009 at Once
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Aug 19, 2009