Feral Mom, Feral Writer

Forthcoming soon from Connotations Press: Ananda’s Line , a series of five poems inspired by the life of the late sculptor, artist, writer ...

Now it is more possible for a woman writer to be seen as, well, just that: neither nun nor orgiastic priestess, neither more nor less than h...

I think all of us need to be some kind of starfish to survive—have to be able to put our insides out and vice versa in order to keep our ba...

The thief left a size 13 footprint on the chair he’d used to get from our window ledge onto the carpet, taking my laptop, the sword my husba...

In dreams begin responsibility, said a poet. In dreams, in imagination, we begin to be one another. I am thou. The barriers go down .--Ursul...

Under the weight of my husband’s body, the back end of the tiny zodiac dips nearly even with the water’s surface as he uses his arms to padd...

Why we didn’t think to turn and follow the boy running at full speed past us down the lane of chest-high weeds to the pond’s edge I don’t kn...