Oregon, Columbine, October, November, December—

  I think of you, fellow teacher, and I fear what lies on the other side of the door, the window, the rain. What power lies in waiting, what anger, what brown paper bag concealing fire. I lean back in my desk chair and make myself a little smaller, blend into the...

First, She was a Poem: Cadence on the Swings

  I had a bit of a moment today, and I really have to share. In the picture to your left is my beautiful, nine-and-a-half-month old daughter, Cadence (yes, like the title), and she had her first turn on a swing today—one of those little, infant-safe ones on...

False Memory

  We’re too damaged to go back now, left a little too far open, lost moons, the open box-cutters with a blade that shines like glass against your hair, your eyes, the feeling of blade to skin. Watching you, this is how a river feels— too cool, too fast, a...