a poem about taking a break from romance (or damn, winter can be cold)

as you know, i’ve been contemplating the light and romance and poetry mojo. they are three of my obsessions. how they ebb and flow. most recently, how they dwindle. i would be hard-pressed to tell you which absence is most disheartening. but i can say that i’ve lived long enough to know that neither light nor poetry really disappear. romance, however? i have little evidence that it persists.

word on the street #3: she’s a poet

a warm august evening on willett street. one of my neighbors asks what i’m reading. before i can answer, his partner tells him, she’s not reading. she’s writing. she’s a poet. i tilt my head as far back as it goes and admire the crooked line against the sky made by roofs of the brownstones and the church on the corner. it is the border between the positive and negative spaces. a metaphor, if ever there were one.

with apologies to the dalai lama

after i left, one of the uncharacteristic things my husband did was begin quoting the dalai lama. over two decades, my husband had never shown me a spiritual, peaceful, one-with-the-universe, kindness-toward-all bone in his body. that he suddenly connected with the dalai lama became a big joke to me (especially during periods of, shall we say, spitefulness toward me). i doubted his sincerity.

kale & kohlrabi: alliteration CSA style

i’ve long said that the glorious cookbooks on my fridge are aspirational. i’m often convinced that the right recipe will change my life, turn me into someone who cooks. i’m a little high on that idea today after eating all day what i cooked last night. as far as i know, i haven’t poisoned myself, and it’s fairly clear: homemade — even my homemade — is simply fresher and more flavorful.