Blog Posts

  • Summer 1955

    Summer 1955

    Nothing is moving today.

    Neither the trees nor the grass

    not the top parts of the ocean

    nor the blacks birds over the path.

    The heat falls onto us mid morning and


    lose interest in torturing the dog.

    I think I hear

    the Good Humor man’s truck,

    an echoing television from an open window,

    the hiss hiss of the sprinkler whipping

    around its three pronged medusa heads,

    over the damp, soft grass.

    Inside, a white eyelet nightgown’s

    rustle, moving metal treasures in my

    Grandmother’s drawers while she napped

    with her eyes open.

  • My Mother’s Hair

    My Mother’s Hair

    My mother’s hair always escaped

    from under her red kerchief or the


    lacquered on  for control and the hair

    often went

    dancing in a night club in Manhattan

    even when she was in labor with

    one of us. You can’t control wildness.

    My mother lay, legs askew, baby

    coming, never having  to push as Dr. Leroy

    removed us with forceps while her hair was

    dancing at the Stork Club and her waist, so


    turning sideways she could have been

    an exclamation point or a bent spoon.

    Her hair, curled in the heat and the moist

    music, was happy as rhythm was the

    clef of curl and the smoke, the smoke,

    smoothed her out and persuaded her

    life could be El Morocco and the possibility

    of finding Mr.Rich.

    Even after she found him she

    worried he wouldn’t stay. He told her to


    her hair softer. It was always

    touch and go but he made the rules.

    Older, her hair curled around nurses

    who loved her sweetness while her children

    longed to hear her truth.

    You see, life was a silken tendril and a


    TV dinners and flowered dresses with waists

    cinched by men who knew how to lead.

    Scissors hadn’t been invented and music

    could anesthetize freedom. Hair could go


  • Reading Vol de Nuit Reading “Vol de Nuit”
  • Vol de Nuit

                  Vol de Nuit

    “This is your captain speaking” I hear as I look around my seat and curiously push the dimly lit buttons with the diagrams on them of what I may want to do for the next 10 hours.

     I love the deep voice of the captain especially when he’s British: so reassuring and yet sexy as if any minute he’s going to offer me a cocktail and anything else I might want.

    “Ladies and gentlemen” he says “our flight will go over Newfoundland tonight. We expect no delay in our landing at London Heathrow and  it is our hope that you will enjoy your flight asleep or awake.Thank you for flying with us.”

     I am longing to hear that captain’s voice again.

     I want to be in the capsule of transportation.

    I want a lady with make up on and coiffed hair to offer me a blanket and a billet-doux.

    I long to be taken across the Atlantic, flying high through the clouds while someone else is in charge.

     Maybe I’ll fly to Charles de Gaulle and exit through one of the tube escalators up and escalator down into the customs area where I will be met by a chauffeur who will take me to a five-star Hotel in Paris where I will acquire several new outfits and a chauffeur.

    At night when I can’t sleep I think of all those opportunities. My daughter kept saying to me, “Mom!Go live in France for a while. They’ll  understand you there.”

    I know it’s too late and that’s OK but I still love to imagine the sound of that voice “Good evening ladies and gentlemen!Welcome to flight 27 from San Francisco to wherever your heart desires.”

    I  am wearing my travel clothes so I will look perfectly chic when we land.

    I’ve been wearing them for five months.

    I’ll never stop dreaming just as I’ve never stopped  breathing so if I never stop breathing I can’t guarantee I won’t in-jest something that could easily kill me.

    So that’s why I’m happy I’m a good imaginer.

    I always travel light and rarely breathe.

  • Reading of Lust