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The Great Army

When I was a child I used to beg the Old Buddhist to tell this story over and over again, especially the descriptions of the soldiers.

On The Question Of Redemption

Rituals

Every night Lynn cooks onions for supper: liver and onions, onion soup, onion rings, hot sausage grinders. Every night, amidst the smell of onions, Jerry removes pieces of the kitchen’s blue-flowered wallpaper, exposing patches of green paint and gray paste.

Selected Poems

Storms

A classmate remembered, a card playing grandmother, a Hurricane Andrew survivor

Letter To Maxim

The story of you is starting in me again. When I think of you, I see a road, a long gray stretch of lonely two-lane highway, a yellow stripe painted down its middle, a road in the middle of nowhere.

Sewing Batman’s Cape After The Funeral Of A Friend’s Son

The Reason We Work So Hard

Ten Years Later

A sister’s grief, an aging woman’s grace, a rape victim’s triumph

Stephen

I can’t believe how naive I was when I interviewed Stephen Schwartz last year. I was drawn to his warmth, his humor, the beauty of his language. I was moved by his insights about emotional healing. There’s no ideal state of consciousness, he insisted, other than the one we find ourselves in right now.