I want to give gifts to my vagina and make offerings to my blessed baby-brewing space. Place jewels, paint it gold, dress it in ostrich feather and dragonfly wing- a beacon blinking SOS.
A funny thing happened on the way to Maine to read a poem. I ran over a blown-out tire on I-95 somewhere in New Hampshire. The slight impact bent part of my front fender. Of course this happened a few hours before I was to participate in a poetry reading hosted by WAVE (Writers and Authors for Visceral Entertainment) for the Belfast Art Walk. Luckily, I was two highway exits away from the amazing service team at Starkey Ford that… Keep Reading
I’m not afraid of depression. I know what it looks like, what it smells like, how it dresses on sun-filled or rainy days. And I know it usually shows up after I endure a long stretch of anxiety. Well, what do you think I’ve been doing since the oncologist declared my tumor gone? I’ve been standing on the beach peering though a telescope in search of an approaching storm I’m told, if I’m lucky, will never come. I told this… Keep Reading
It began with your front office staff deciding I was a public healthcare patient and making me jump through hoops to be seen. No, wait, that is inaccurate. It began before that, with my being new to Massachusetts trying to find a physician within 70 miles of my home accepting new patients. What I didn’t know was in a state where less than 3% of its residents are uninsured, half of the primary care practices are closed to new patients…. Keep Reading
You have people who love you. Your mother who put everything on hold to spend three months going with you to every doctor visit, bathe you when you could barely stand, hold basins, plastic garbage bags, and once, a cardboard box to catch your vomit. Your boyfriend with the long-time fear of hospitals and death shrinking into despair when you were crying out in the bathroom in the middle of the night, every night, for the last weeks of radiation…. Keep Reading
I said I was finished writing poetry well over a year ago. Not for any specific reason. Nothing happened. There was no great assault or some tragic thing. And then I learned an old photographer friend — Alvin Richburg, Jr. – died from complications associated with self-detox from alcohol which he used to self-medicate a bipolar disorder. The news made me want to write little poems all over the house, I didn’t, but it was my first inclination. That I… Keep Reading
No body is policed more than the black woman body. The black woman body is all wrong: too loud, too black, too big, too impenetrable, but too often penetrated, too coveted, too assumed, too bought, bartered, and re-purposed. The world has developed a taste for the black woman body and we are in danger of never recovering it. We teach our daughters to hide the body, disguise it, refuse it, give it over to the gods of men, and when that fails… Keep Reading
I love my mom. I took this foto of her the Saturday after my first chemo cycle. She stopped her busy life of work and citywide volunteer coordinating to come be with me for cancer treatment for 2 weeks and ended up staying 3 months. The last day of the first 5-day chemo cycle, we left the hospital and I drove her to the lighthouse where I fotographed her at my favorite place near the water. I love that we had… Keep Reading