I stole my husband’s favorite flannel shirt today.
Nothing else fits.
Everything is dirty, milk-stained,
too big, stretched strange,
too small,
incompatible with feeding a hungry newborn.

The babe stole from me hours of sleep today
and yesterday
and the day before.
He wakes too far before dawn,
snorting and snuffling,
his little body still adapting to the
food and ways of this world.
He cries and calls out.
But the silence is even worse,
and I move even closer to find the
sound of his breath.

My husband’s mother will steal my older son away today—
his morning with Nonni.
Gymnastics class,
a little walk,
and lunch wherever he likes
(though they always go to the same diner
just around the corner).
This son who yesterday bit his best friend
This son who says every night he wants to snuggle with me

Today I’ll cook down onions, mushrooms, garlic
in the middle of the afternoon.
I’ll stir in warm crushed tomatoes,
paprika, cumin, red pepper,
more garlic,
let it simmer as the day ends.
Then a few cracks over the frying pan
at the last minute.
Served with slices of homemade sourdough.
Eggs in purgatory.

Nothing lasts forever.


Muttered sighs at my collar bone. Milk leaking onto everything. A baby, a bird. A son.

I drift through days, willing my body to heal, taking things slow. Coffee and reading. Old movies and knitting. Nursing and nursing and nursing, growing chubby baby cheeks and baby thighs and baby brain. Adrift. No goals, no expectations. April sliding away. Am I doing the Right Things? (‘You do not have to be good…’) The toddler and the husband off on their own again.

Green things sprout and begin to bloom. April showers.

Words inked onto blank pages.


I just finished watching Tracks*, the story of the woman who crossed 1700 miles of Australian desert in the 70s with just four camels and her dog. I could tell within minutes of starting it that it would be dangerous, the temptation of Eve. The itch comes along every once in a while, to leave everything behind but a backpack and start walking. Often in spring. Often during the first straight week of nice weather. Even more so this year, now that my body hasn’t run in months, has hardly taken wandering walks all winter, has been wrapped in warming wool and kept inside, has been weighed down with baby and all of the extra blood and and fluid and exhaustion that accompanies the task of incubation.

This is when I tear through my home like a cyclone, paring down possessions, clearing out clutter. This is when I dream of the trails and wild places all over this country. This is when I am outside every day, fingers deep in the soil of my yard. I test the balance between allowing my body the recovery time it needs after pregnancy and birth and the need to put one foot in front of the other. My toddler only wants to run these days, a trot or a gallop, climbing, jumping, thundering across wood floors and racing down dirt roads, and I feel the same. Strap the baby to my chest and go.

Six years ago this month, I dropped off a boy at the foot of the Appalachian Trail and ached to be the one shouldering the pack and walking north, rather than the one climbing back into my mother’s old minivan and writing my final college papers.

Five years ago, I was newly detached from a failed engagement, just beginning to plan a solo trek across North Carolina, hellbent on convincing my parents that I would be safe, when a different (and, in retrospect, rather important) opportunity presented itself, and I headed higher into the mountains instead.

We don’t need to go far fast. Find a route that allows for toddler pace. I just want to be out, away, off the grid. Sun darkened and feral-smelling. There is so little wilderness left here where the settlers landed four hundred years ago. On the dirt road we walk each day, my son runs each time into an undeveloped plot, up through a path of mulched leaves, and I want to give to him acres of that. I want land where you can’t hear cars or chainsaws or trucks or lawnmowers. I want him to see more than just neighborhood birds and squirrels, occasional rabbits, and the flock of turkeys whom my neighbor lures with corn thrown across her lawn. I want both of my sons to know wild places

The grass will always be greener, I tell myself. Be content with where you are, with the good of what you have.

I recognize that good. But I cannot be content with it.

*The poster on the link is wildly inappropriate…

the story within the story

The point of a story is always the point beside the point.
[Hollis Summers]

There is the story, and there is the story within the story. The moral and then the meaning. The life and the interpretation. Nearly all of my fiction, all of my poems (and nearly all “creative” writing, I think) is real experience (or at least real dreaming) filtered and mulled over and mixed and distilled and scribbled over and reimagined until it best expresses what life presented in so sloppy a manner.

I gave birth to a baby boy three days and one hour ago. Numbers and facts were noted by midwife hands as events unfolded, and my own initial response I’ve written already. I’ve talked it through a little with my husband, my mother, my mother-in-law. But the story is still unfinished. It’s what happened on the outside, not the inside.

Sometimes the plot twists. Sometimes your body throws you curve balls, holding onto your baby long after you thought it would want it out. Sometimes the firecracker baby girl you imagine for months and months is the sleepiest little chirping newborn boy you’ve ever seen.

And sometimes the plot finds a theme and won’t let it go. The same emotions as before as labor goes on for longer than you want. The same sensation as the slippery, squidlike body separates from yours. The same curl on his forehead, same hairs on the edges of his ears, same weight on your chest as he sleeps.

It’s a new section to my(/our) narrative, A period and a blank page and a fresh beginning. A new season. Finding our shifted balance as a family as I rediscover the balance of my own unburdened body.

When I gave birth the first time, I thought I would find a wellspring of inspiration, creativity, fertility for my work, and instead I found the shock of new motherhood. This time I expected a shock, and though I know it won’t be easy, something tells me the words, too, are there waiting.


distant thunder.
the kind that wakes you from sleep not because you hear it, but because you feel it,
because the hair at the base of your neck prickles,
because there’s a charge to the air
even if the clouds outside the window haven’t fully gathered yet,
still loitering just beyond the tree line.

I am struck by the pale purple hyacinth in the dining room
the bold rose-coral hydrangea in the living room
the sprouted green cabbage
the white budding citrus.

this morning I want a hot, steaming bowl of buttery oatmeal
creamy and sweet and thick.
ginger tea.
regina spektor and feist and ani difranco
bittersweet, bright, unstoppable.

ready for the sudden downpour.

2015-04-03 07.50.10

Pink Moon.

Egg moon. Fish Moon. Flower Moon. Duck moon. Easter.

The month of sex and birth and rebirth, all jumbled together.

Flowing and flying and flowering.

And with all of this change, the snow melting and wildlife moving and plants surging from the earth (daffodils! tulips! not yet flowering, but soon), my own body has grown still. My hips don’t ache the way they did a month ago. I have a little more space to breathe, a little more room for food, since the baby has settled as far down as it can go. My due date, arbitrary as it may be, was four days ago, and while my brain, the “I” of myself, is restless and anxious and frustrated, my body and baby seem content to wait for the right moment. So we make plans and follow through with them. Dinner with friends, errands, household tasks. The cabbage seeds I wondered if I would have time to plant have already sprouted in their little newspaper sprouting pots, the peppers and gooseberries, I imagine, not far behind. The baby’s quilt is finished, and the knit blanket widens as I knit around and around, counting the stitches like rosary beads, begun with only eight and adding eight more every other row—now 100 around, now 300, now 450.

I squat low, stretching toward the earth. I circle my hips, an awkward belly dance. I drink pints of raspberry leaf tea, eat black licorice, spicy food. I bake morning glory muffins and honey oat bread. I marvel that my belly has not burst open like an overripe plum. I welcome days without coats, days without mucky boots. I spy frost outside only early in the mornings. I point out to my son the flock of turkeys that loiters around our house, feathered tails flaring, fluttering on and off of fences. The worms in the soil.

Everything is changing quickly these days, and I feel like a stone at the center, still and unnoticed.