Thursday, 17 August 2017

YAHRZEIT

by Lesléa Newman


Golden autumn leaves
drift lazily through the air
onto Mother’s grave

White winter snowflakes
fall all over themselves to
blanket Mother’s grave

Gentle spring raindrops
are sent down from the heavens
to wash Mother’s grave

Warm summer breezes
chase pale yellow butterflies
around Mother’s grave

Today marks a year
endless tears soak one small stone
placed on Mother’s grave


* * * * *

 “Yahrzeit” copyright ©2015 Lesléa Newman, from I Carry My Mother (Headmistress Press, Sequim, WA). Reprinted by permission of the author. Here is a book trailer for I Carry My Mother:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yf4ubYHObAM

Lesléa Newman is a poet, fiction writer, essayist, children’s book writer and anthologist whose 70 books include the poetry collections, Still Life with Buddy, Nobody’s MotherSigns of Love, and October Mourning: A Song for Matthew Shepard (novel-in-verse) which received a Stonewall Honor from the American Library Association. Ms. Newman’s literary awards include poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation; the Burning Bush Poetry Prize; and second place runner-up in the Solstice Literary Journal poetry competition. From 2008-2010 she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, Massachusetts. Currently she is a faculty member of Spalding University’s low-residency MFA in Writing program. Her most recent poetry collection, I Carry My Mother, received the 2016 Golden Crown Literary Society Poetry Award and was named a “Must-Read” title by the Massachusetts Center for the Book.



Wednesday, 16 August 2017

HOW TO WATCH YOUR FATHER WATCH YOUR MOTHER DIE

by Lesléa Newman


Sit beside him on a folding chair beside your mother’s bed.
Place a box of tissues between you.
Watch him take your mother’s hand in both his own
and stroke it like a small wounded animal.
Do not speak.
Do not turn on the TV.
Do not shatter the silence around you.
Let time pass.
Listen to your father sigh.
Listen to your father sob.
Hand your father a tissue whenever necessary.
Ask him if he wants food.
Ask him if wants water.
Ask him if he wants to take a walk.
Do not press him when he says no to everything.
Remember the one thing he wants is impossible to give him.
Let more time pass.
When your father gets up to go to the bathroom and says,
“Hold Mom’s hand,” hold your mother’s hand.
When he returns, give your mother’s hand back to your father.
It belongs to him.
Do not tell your father what the hospice nurse told you:
you need to let go so she can let go.
When the sun sets, gather the darkened room
around your shoulders like a cloak.
See your father’s undying love
take your mother’s breath away.


* * * * *

“How To Watch Your Father Watch Your Mother Die” copyright ©2015 Lesléa Newman, from I Carry My Mother (Headmistress Press, Sequim, WA). Reprinted by permission of the author. Here is a book trailer for I Carry My Mother:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yf4ubYHObAM

Lesléa Newman is a poet, fiction writer, essayist, children’s book writer and anthologist whose 70 books include the poetry collections, Still Life with Buddy, Nobody’s MotherSigns of Love, and October Mourning: A Song for Matthew Shepard (novel-in-verse) which received a Stonewall Honor from the American Library Association. Ms. Newman’s literary awards include poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation; the Burning Bush Poetry Prize; and second place runner-up in the Solstice Literary Journal poetry competition. From 2008-2010 she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, Massachusetts. Currently she is a faculty member of Spalding University’s low-residency MFA in Writing program. Her most recent poetry collection, I Carry My Mother, received the 2016 Golden Crown Literary Society Poetry Award and was named a “Must-Read” title by the Massachusetts Center for the Book.


Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Fabric

by Alicia Vandevorst



There, the shimmery, the matte cotton, the frayed, the tufted,
the mass of fabric scraps that can’t be thrown away, and my mother
who fingers fabrics sideways, not turning till she wants a length;
she keeps her scraps, the color field, the pool of individuals 
apart, tousled to rouse her sense of depth, the potency 
the field reflects: this with this with this and that or that.

Last night I dreamed a pile of fabric scraps, a fabulous pink
metallic wing, a ginger wool, greens of undersides, 
and flashes of tips of more, a mound a woman formed, to save
and give away to me the chance to bring the scraps together;
and here I see my lists as colors: the Sanskrit lover, gardener,
mother, poet, the stomps I dance, the tendency to sit
and watch a while, translator without fluency...

or see the field of gorgeous skins: the russet, the burnt umber,
the pale of pith, the faintest yellow as the cast of a set sun,
the shiny loamy ones, the bone, the unglazed porcelain,
the scaly green, the silver wet, the white fur, the roan...
as if pieced together to form a quilt whose seams reveal
binding life, a whole that shifts together, flows and rests.

Monday, 14 August 2017

The Day Mandela Died

by Alicia Vandevorst


Now, these years, with tinsel through my hair, my grandmother
sits, hands slackened between her thighs, and watches
 
the wash of sunlight through my mother’s window; that
is beautiful, she says, in her empty wasp-nest voice,
all day the wind has shaken the shadows on the walls
and the potted flowers glow, it has been so quick, this day,
she says, at last, I am so happy just to sit and watch.

But in my sorrow I washed two towels with the delicates
and in my rush to fix the sheets, I left the door ajar
and the heat goes out that my husband wanted in, and that is like before, 
when the cat ran wild from the opened cage into the winter wood, 
with his limp, at dusk, he cried in answer, but no longer came to my hands.

What hands can do, that is what has passed from her
and both sun and shadow flash with glory like accomplishments;
but she does not wrestle with her powers anymore
and can enjoy the whole in passive gratitude.
I wonder how my death will be; that I may sit in sunlight, 

warm with impartial heat, bony frame wrapped in a shawl
and the last glimpse is of red, lit leaves.
This is a way I might let light usher me out,
as if the sun’s pressure became more real
than the stories in these busy bones.

Tonight, I wrap beside my sleepy daughter,
hold her moist, plump hand, again,
sing, dee, dee, dee, and swing low
sweet chariot, coming for to carry, and
she asks for me to stay a little longer.


Sunday, 13 August 2017

Eleven Daffodils

by Meryl Natchez


What am I to make
of these daffodils,
perfumed strumpets, picked
who knows where
by who knows whom
possibly genetically
modified, commercially
fertilized, spritzed
with pesticide?

These questions did not arise
when I tossed
the budded stems
in my shopping cart
on a chill afternoon:
essence of spring
for a dollar twenty-nine.

Now they sit
and radiate scent,
molecules of daffodil
mixing it up
with molecules of oxygen
all about my desk
until I am dizzy
with this year’s crop
of praise
and regret.


* * * * *

“Eleven Daffodils” first appeared in Canary, Spring 2014.


Saturday, 12 August 2017

Motherhood

by Meryl Natchez


I like it that they give robot babies to teens
to simulate parenthood,
that the robots are programmed to cry if they
aren’t held. I think the teen mother has
to hold them—no one else can make them
shut up—but maybe I am only
imagining that, maybe that’s a level of need
only real babies demonstrate.
Because a robot can’t prepare you.
Even if it cries all the time,
it isn’t wired
into your nervous system.
You can’t imagine the despair and rage snarled within
the besotted adoration
that tiny body wrenches from you
at birth.

This is the blood vow,
the one you cannot break.
You can barely acknowledge, even to yourself,
the force of the urge for escape,
and you’re lying if you say you don’t
understand how anyone could bash
a baby’s brains against a wall.
With luck,
you don’t do it.


* * * * *

“Motherhood” first appeared in the anthology: The Mamas and the Papas, City Works Press, 2010


Friday, 11 August 2017

Time Doesn’t Heal
( For my dear sister, Kay )

by Kim Sisto Robinson


Not a day unfolds without
thoughts of you. Your auburn
hair falls over my face smelling
of lilacs, Tabu perfume, summer.

Home.

Time doesn’t stop.
It continues ticking as if
it knows nothing, sees nothing,
feels nothing.

Merciless.

When I think about your murder,
my organs twist and turn inside my body
like hot fists, angry stones. My bones splinter
into sharp fangs.

Hurting me.

Time doesn’t heal.
It makes you remember, makes
you forget, makes you love fiercely,
madly, completely…

as if tomorrow will never come.


* * * * *

Kim Sisto Robinson, whose sister was murdered by a husband who then killed himself on May 26, 2010, asks that her poem be accompanied by The Domestic Abuse Hotline phone number: 1-800-799-7233.


Thursday, 10 August 2017


by Miriam O'Neal


1.
Green as moss under the pines on Beaver Dam Brook,
clear as a spring that feeds a bog, we married for love.

All that day the clouds played havoc with the light,
blew a tune out of a brown jug— like the Gurnet on foggy nights.

2.
One shoulder tucked against my ribs the sudden pop
as of champagne uncorked; lips milk blistered,

slack in sleep, you dreamed your way to me. Here, take my glass
heart, before the shadows spread like owls’ wings.

3.
He loved me. He couldn’t forget he ever said that.

4.
Blue baby. Red too. He saved you; cord around your neck like kite string
Nurse, there’s something wrong here.

Pelvic bones shifted like tectonic plates
to sieve you into this world—
Here. I give you this.



Wednesday, 9 August 2017

Will I Remember You

by Debra Kiva


There may come a day
I won't know you.
I will look at your pretty face
and wonder if you are
friend or foe.
It may start by
knowing your name
or not knowing it.
Your face may be
familiar like the
bank teller that you
bump into at Trader Joes -
Your eyes squint with the
pondering of,
“How do I know
you? “
Usually, one can find the connection
but not always.
And the rest of the day her face
comes into your mind and you wonder.

But, I may never recall your face.

I will pretend and present well.
At least at first until the ability is lost to me.
I may smile at you in my attempt
to show recognition.
But you'll know. It won't be
that smile you gleamed when we
sat at the Italian restaurant in
Malibu, when the young, handsome waiter gave me
a complimentary glass of Cabernet and winked.
That night I felt special
that I still had “it.”

No, instead, it will be that
tentative grin, fake but with effort.
And in the effort that you witness,
your heart will swell and break.
I may stroke your face
maybe with the hopes
that the touch will go through
my fingertips, rise into my
frontal lobe, translate the touch
with the memory of you and remind me
help me to know, to
remember
something
before it is
erased forever.

And to remember that many years ago,
you grew inside of me --
you whom I should never,
ever be able to forget.


* * * * *

Debra Kiva has been writing poetry as means to process challenging situations for over 25 years. She is co-director of Gold Country Threshold Choir which provides comfort and compassion through song to those on the threshold of life. She currently lives in the Sierra Foothills with her husband and black lab. 


Tuesday, 8 August 2017

In honor of yesterday's full moon, the tenth Moon Prize* goes to Ellen LaFleche's moving poem "After"—backdating to the full moon of June 9, 2017.


After

by Ellen LaFleche


I unwrap a slab of soap scented with honey and milk
after I dip the washcloth in water so hot
it could make a living person shiver
as if the steam that scalds my palms
could unstiffen your limbs, could re-warm your bones,
could make you sit up in bed with the biblical grace of the risen

after I wash your eyelids, your lips, your temples,
after I dip my finger in the small font at the end of your spine
after I bathe you between your thighs
as if you could feel soap suds bursting against your glans
 
after I kneel by your bed
and dry your feet with my hair

I pick up the phone
and make the calls.


* * * * *

Ellen LaFleche is the author of three chapbooks: Workers' Rites (Providence Athenaeum), Beatrice (Tiger's Eye Press) and Ovarian (Dallas Poets Community Press.)  She won the Tor House Poetry Prize, the New Millennium Poetry Prize, the Hunger Mountain Prize, and the Joe Gouveia Outermost Poetry Prize.  She is an assistant judge for the North Street Book Prize and a freelance editor.  She is currently finishing a manuscript tentatively titled Walking into Lightning with a Metal Urn in My Hands, a collection of poems following the death of her husband to ALS.  "After" is part of this manuscript.


* The Moon Prize ($91) is awarded once a month on the full moon for a story or poem posted in Writing In A Woman's Voice during the moon cycle period preceding a full moon. I don't want this to be competition. I simply want to share your voices. And then I want to pick one voice during a moon cycle for the prize. I fund this with 10% of my personal modest income. I wish I could pay for each and every poem or story, but I am not that rich. (Yet.) For a while I will run two months behind with this prize—eventually I expect to catch up to the current month.

Why 91? 91 is a mystical number for me. It is 7 times 13. 13 is my favorite number. (7 isn't half bad either.) There are 13 moons in a year. I call 13 my feminist number, reasoning that anything that was declared unlucky in a patriarchal world has to be mystically excellent. Then there are 4 times 91 days in a year (plus one day, or two days in leap years), so approximately 91 days each season. In some Mayan temples there are or were 91 steps on each of four sides. Anyway, that's where the number 91 comes from, not to mention that it's in the approximate neighborhood of 100.


Monday, 7 August 2017

In honor of today's full moon, the ninth Moon Prize* goes to Anne Peterson's powerful poem of abuse and unresolved loss, "No More Talking"—backdating to the full moon of May 10, 2017.

No More Talking

by Anne Peterson


“Divorce” the letter read; 
“violence,” it went on.
A long-distance call made: 
“I can’t talk now! 
He’s harassing me again.”

Hours later a phone rings, 
and two sisters talk.
One tells of a hurting heart 
and ten years of pain;
the other sobs in silence.
“Calling the police was easy,
I wish I would have done it sooner.”

Days later, another caller, 
“She’s gone.
No one knows where. 
She never showed up at work. 
Her husband says she just walked out.”

Disbelief fills a sister's heart,
Too many questions invade her mind:
Why would she leave her kids?
Why didn't she take her car?
Why not wait for the money
that would be hers the next day?

Some questions in life get answered, 
and some take time. 
It has been thirty-five years 
since two sisters talked,
and one still hurts.


* * * * *

Anne Peterson is a poet, speaker, and published author of 14 books. She has written Broken: a story of Abuse and Survival, several children's books and some poetry books. You can see Anne's books here at her author page. To find out more about Anne, visit her website at www.annepeterson.com or you can visit her Facebook author page.


* The Moon Prize ($91) is awarded once a month on the full moon for a story or poem posted in Writing In A Woman's Voice during the moon cycle period preceding a full moon. I don't really want this to be competition. I simply want to share your voices. And then I want to pick one voice during a moon cycle for the prize. I fund this with 10% of my personal modest income. I wish I could pay for each and every poem or story, but I am not that rich. (Yet.) For a little while only there will be two awards each month, on the day of the full moon and the day after, until I catch up with past postings.


Why 91? 91 is a mystical number for me. It is 7 times 13. 13 is my favorite number. (7 isn't half bad either.) There are 13 moons in a year. I call 13 my feminist number, reasoning that anything that was declared unlucky in a patriarchal world has to be mystically excellent. Then there are 4 times 91 days in a year (plus one day, or two days in leap years), so approximately 91 days each season. In some Mayan temples there are or were 91 steps on each of four sides. Anyway, that's where the number 91 comes from, not to mention that it's in the approximate neighborhood of 100. 

Sunday, 6 August 2017

The Parking Lot – April 2014

by Debra Kiva


I remember that Tuesday
in April.
I watched as the agitation of
the unfamiliar
place
began to swallow you.
You fidgeted, eyes darted about
saying over and over
"I want to go home."
The four of us sitting on slate blue
metal chairs, awaiting
lunch at the outdoor cafe
by the sea
on the other side
of the world.
I took you from the table.
It was only day two of our visit.
You didn't know who I was but
you were sweet.
It was as if the harshness that
possessed you for
all those years
had disappeared
and you enjoyed the
tenderness of my
attention.
I said, I'd take you back to the car.
As we walked I told you that
“Sometimes, I want to
go home too.”
You asked if I knew your kids. 
I said, yes because I am one
of them.
You questioned, do you know the other
two?
I answered, I did, I knew them well, my whole life
because I am your
youngest.
You said, there is one I have not
seen in a long time. And your face
showed immeasurable sorrow.
I said I miss him too.

And that's when
you fell
into my arms
that afternoon
in the hot Australian sun.
It had been over a year
since he passed -
your beautiful son from
a disease similar to the
one that will soon
claim you.
That day, I held your
tiny, frail body up
and for the first time
since his death
you cried.


* * * * *

Debra Kiva has been writing poetry as means to process challenging situations for over 25 years. She is co-director of Gold Country Threshold Choir which provides comfort and compassion through song to those on the threshold of life. She currently lives in the Sierra Foothills with her husband and black lab. 


Saturday, 5 August 2017

A NOTEWORTHY LIFE AND DEATH

by Judith Offer


She spent her life
Looking
For the music in it,
Not realizing
She should have been
Listening instead.

At least you tried
Said God
As she floated into the robe.
He hummed a few bars.
That’s it she said.
That’s it!  That’s it!


* * * * *

Judith Offer has had two daughters, five books of poetry and dozens of plays. (Eighteen of the latter, including six musicals, have been produced.)  She has read her poetry at scores of poetry venues, but is particularly delighted to have been included in the Library of Congress series and on “All Things Considered,” on NPR.  Her writing reflects her childhood in a large Catholic family—with some Jewish roots—her experience as teacher, community organizer, musician, historian, gardener, and all-purpose volunteer, and her special fascination with her roles of wife and mother.  Her most recent book of poetry, called DOUBLE CROSSING, is poems about Oakland, California, where she lives with her husband, Stuart.


Friday, 4 August 2017

PROFESSOR ANITA HILL, JUDGE CLARENCE THOMAS,
THE SENATORS, AND US

by Judith Offer


The Professor said that the Judge said that his donger
Was longer than Silver’s. Horrified, mortified,
We tried to get our televisions and radios
To go away, stop following us around all day.
But they stayed tuned without remorse,
So in due course, we had to witness the man’s defense:
“It makes no sense to listen to her,” he said.
“I didn’t. Instead, think of her sex. Maybe she’s
A wanabee Judge’s girl, mad for love of me, an African-
American who is well-affirmed. You whites, pinks, and greys
Should stay away from the darker questions;
That’s my suggestion. Your skin isn’t fit to judge.”
He wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t his style. (Or hers.)
Senators (left and right) sweated, squirmed,
And yearned to be away from the media’s gaze,
Eighteen hour days, ambitious women, nasty reporters
And assorted spinning orators. Finally, they voted to vote.
Their ignorance noted, they decided to promise
Mr. Thomas a lifetime of Justice. Professor Anita,
Having retreated a thoroughly-Hilled Hill,
Still measures law at the head of her class.
Last and least, We the People of the Land of the Free
Wait to see what justice will fit
In a court where sits a man whose donger
(Pinocchio-like) gets longer and longer and longer.


* * * * *

"Professor Anita Hill, Judge Clarence Thomas, The Senators, and Us" is from the collection Judith Offer's collection THERE IS THERE IS THERE.


Judith Offer has had two daughters, five books of poetry and dozens of plays. (Eighteen of the latter, including six musicals, have been produced.)  She has read her poetry at scores of poetry venues, but is particularly delighted to have been included in the Library of Congress series and on “All Things Considered,” on NPR.  Her writing reflects her childhood in a large Catholic family—with some Jewish roots—her experience as teacher, community organizer, musician, historian, gardener, and all-purpose volunteer, and her special fascination with her roles of wife and mother.  Her most recent book of poetry, called DOUBLE CROSSING, is poems about Oakland, California, where she lives with her husband, Stuart.

Thursday, 3 August 2017

The Bicycle

by Julia Carlson


This morning when I awoke I felt like looking outside to the street. It had been a long time, six weeks since he left me. I had closed myself in staying in bed wrapped in the white sheets day in day out. Today is the first time I had any desire to see what was going on outside of these walls. I saw a man leaning his bicycle against the wall opposite my front window. I had never seen him before. Since when I wondered had he been parking his bicycle on my street?  Who was he?  I pressed my body against the window. My breasts felt cold from the contact with the glass.

Two days have passed and now there is no more bicycle. I worry. I like seeing this rusty bicycle propped against the wall. How come he has stopped coming here -  maybe he had a fight with his mistress. Perhaps he is tired of her. I have learned her name - Audrey.

Today the bicycle was there. As soon as I got up, I went to my window. I pulled the curtains. In the street the man was looking at my window, trying to see if I was there. After a moment I pulled out of his view because I was conscious of my nudity.

Today it was cold and he wore a grey checked cap. It made his ears look comical. He had a loaf of bread and a little brown paper bag, probably breakfast for himself and his lover. Sometimes when I am out walking, I see the woman, small, very pretty, with clear eyes. I don’t think she knows who I am. Yesterday we were both at the laundry and she acted as if she had never seen me. When she left for a minute to get some air, I stole one of her sheets; I wanted to know his smell.

Now when he comes in the morning, if I am at the window, he bows to me. He doffs his cap, and bows like an old gentleman. Sometimes he throws me kisses. Three days ago, I dreamt he brought me bread. I ate it quickly, I was afraid someone would take it away from me.

He is a maniac. Obsessed with habits. He arrives at exactly the same time and always comes from the same direction. I suppose he comes from work, but can he never vary his route?  This makes me angry, as though he may be dull or without curiosity. He always has the loaf of bread and the little paper bag. His clothes all look the same, yet he does not wear a uniform. Probably he buys his shirts and trousers by sixes instead of ones. He parks his bicycle, looks for the key in her letterbox and then he turns. At this moment he bows to me. Then he goes upstairs to HER.

Today he arrived the same as usual. He leaned his bicycle against the wall and then he began to walk to my house. I was afraid and went quickly to the back room and hid. My heart was beating loud, like rain against a metal roof.

I am not sleeping well. I toss and turn in every direction. My bed seems too small. I am looking for something warm to lie against. I wake up earlier and earlier. I know which day and at exactly what time he will arrive. When the time gets closer, the clock’s constant steady ticking vibrates in my head.

Today I motioned for him to come. When he was just at the other side of the window, I pressed my mouth against the glass and kissed him through the transparency. The glass was wet from my lips.

Two days passed, then three. On the fourth day he came. He walked straight to me without any invitation. I pulled the curtains away from the window and pressed my naked torso against the glass. He ran his hands over the glass, caressing my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach. I closed the curtains then. An imprint of my body remained.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


This morning I rode my bicycle to Audrey’s, as usual, it’s Wednesday and I finish when the sun comes up. I stopped for bread and got Audrey a raisin tart; she likes those. We’ve been fighting again, mostly because of that woman across the way. She is strange, that’s all. Audrey doesn’t understand she means no harm. I fool around with her, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s a game. Today Audrey didn’t leave her key. There was another key in the letterbox in its place. I understood at once. Damn that Audrey. It serves her right. So I went to the other’s house. 

Wednesday, 2 August 2017

Edie’s Myeloma

by Gail Rudd Entrekin


Edie has pain in her back, too many plasma cells
inside her spine, crowding out the other white blood cells,
the red, the platelets.  This is the day they pass photons
through her brittle spine as she lies very still in a white room,
a large black X drawn on the curve of her waist.
Soon they will cut into her skin and bone, take a sample
from her marrow to check for mitigation.  Edie

who helped me pitch a tent in Iowa, sheltered beside me
in the driving rain all night, where we laughed and slept
and woke up to cows and sunshine.  Edie

who walked among the Utah horses hanging their heads
over their pasture rail to graze our hands.  Whose camera
saw them as dark hills with manes, a silver print still hanging
in her living room beside the Victorian doilies and daguerreotypes,
the baskets and books she makes, the orange poppies waving
at the window among the bird houses and bright modern sculpture
we chose at the garden show.  Edie

whose anger has always been her go-to response
when things fall apart; this time cheerful, optimistic.  Finally,
the biggest bad thing staring her down,
she embraces a new proposition: hope.  
   

* * *

Gail Rudd Entrekin is Poetry Editor of Hip Pocket Press and Editor of the online environmental literary magazine, Canary (www.canarylitmag.org).  She is Editor of the poetry anthology Yuba Flows (2007) and the poetry & short fiction anthology Sierra Songs & Descants: Poetry & Prose of the Sierra (2002).

Her poems have been widely published in anthologies and literary magazines, including Cimarron Review, Nimrod, New Ohio Review, and Southern Poetry Review, were finalists for the Pablo Neruda Prize in Poetry from Nimrod International Journal in 2011, and won the Women’s National Book Association Award in 2016. 

Entrekin taught poetry and English literature at California colleges for 25 years.  Her books of poetry include The Art of Healing (with Charles Entrekin) (Poetic Matrix Press 2016); Rearrangement of the Invisible, (Poetic Matrix Press, 2012); Change (Will Do You Good) (Poetic Matrix Press, 2005), which was nominated for a Northern California Book Award; You Notice the Body (Hip Pocket Press, 1998); and John Danced (Berkeley Poets Workshop & Press, 1983).  She and her husband, poet and novelist Charles Entrekin, live in the hills of San Francisco’s East Bay.