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When A Home Is Not A House, Or, News From Swamis Local 486

I was born and brought up in a cave. This was in a former life, of course. I remember to this day lying there in a dent in our kitchen wall, only hours after I was born, watching my dad throw stones at the wolves outside.

Selected Poems

It slips through us / a parade of delicate / dead women that carry / the sun in the August sky

— from “End of Summer”

Editor’s Note

Another Appetite

If I were to join in communion with you, to commune with you, to communicate with you, I would do so over a cup of raspberry leaf-mint tea and a piece of Celebration Carob Cake (so called because it was the first cake I baked after the birth of my last child).

Claws

Communicating With Yourself

Our bodies communicate vast amounts of information to our conscious and unconscious minds, and to other people. We cannot hide our feelings, at least not from every part of ourselves.

On Confrontation

When I have a problem, I sometimes have difficulty owning up to it. It’s much easier to say, “He’s screwed up to get in my way like that,” or “How can they treat me that way?” And this only intensifies my problem.

Selected Poems

Celebration

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