Poet, cyclist, mother, lawyer, daughter, nature-lover, wife, photographer. Fan of Yeats, John Irving, Margaret Atwood, Wes Anderson, the Impressionists, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Martin Luther, Jesus. Not in that order.
That night it was snowing like crazy but we left the kitchen in disarray to pick her up and we drove through half-deserted white billowed streets to see the pretty lights at the botanical gardens I walked ahead so you could stroll alone with her through the winter night lit by imagined dragons, undersea creatures, … More Holding Fire
Winter reveals all the broken things you don’t see in the modest months, the tree snapped in half, a frayed thing, touching its forehead to the cold ground – cracked buckets and oblong strips of tires, outbuildings leaning perilously to one side as though they’ve had too many beers when really all they’ve had is … More Winter Reveals
At Linneman’s RiverWest with McKenzie, my firstborn, who is somehow of age, beautiful, and strong, despite it all – we’re just one drink in, waiting for her boyfriend Zach to play, when I hit the ladies’ room — “I’m comin’ out!” the lady in the half-open stall shouts and so I pee behind the imperfectly … More Linneman’s
While waiting for the Percoset to kick in, and the Spinal to bid goodbye, (thus far I can tense the muscles in my right thigh, only), so I can walk, and pee, and get home, and while trying to breathe out in a hiss through the cramping of my missing womb, (though to be clear … More Wee Thing
Something about seeing your skull in black and white and pulled nonchalantly from the manila folder makes me feel loose inside as though all of my bones have let go of each other for the moment, and are floating around unmoored in my limbs, my chest. The skull is death, it’s for pirates, and archaeologists, … More Braces
My big brother is not like a river, ever-changing, moody, bringing you along in his current – he is a river, the Menominee, and despite his full-time job keeping Wisconsin and Michigan in their places, he has also pulled and tangled my hair, has stolen my towels, sunglasses, one cell phone, several shirts, flip-flops, and … More Fighting with My Brother the River
Either it comes to you Or you go to it; nevertheless You meet. Highway 139 weaves southward after your day of skiing; a newly teenaged girl watches a screen in the back, playing a movie meant for her younger self – the older brother left behind at the friends’ cabin, the eldest sister in a … More Drifting
Soft lies the light on the fern in the wood; still lies the love that we had, that we could – Long creep the shadows among grass-green blades; grave is the tongue that once held faith – Slow arcs the moon across the cold, starry, sky; steady beats my heart ‘til I die, … More Lies the Light
The end of summer this year is like a personal assault like a slap from a wet leaf, the leaves fluttering down and the colors just turning and sun setting less and less far north and the mist on the river the acorns landing like a shot on the deck and the yellow school buses … More August
Maybe he’s driving the Jeep through the Vietnamese jungle strewn with tents and men trying to dry their socks and men trying to get the cigarette to light and men trying to tune in the radio signal and men trying to find the words to write a letter and trying most of all not to … More Inheritance
Halfway North 