On July 20, 1997, after 22 years, 8 months and 14 days of human form, my sister turned into a bird. That very first day, a finch—she perched, beak open, eyes to the sky, on the hood of my parents’ car, waiting for them in the hospital parking garage; unflinching as my father opened the passenger side door; stock-still as the leather seat accepted the weight of my mother’s collapsed will…
Read MoreAll summer, crowds have come to the canyon in steady currents, yet I’ve only felt small and solitary; deeply rooted is that particular form of loneliness that blooms in company. I kneel with the memory of your warm hand on my skin…
Read MoreThe man out there isn’t my husband, but my husband is out there. Chemosynthesis occurs when there is no other option, which is to say when there is no light left. He was straight off ten days on a troller when we met in a wet bar. When we kissed, his mouth tasted medieval and his sandpaper cheeks turned my face red for two weeks…
Read MoreIn the first few weeks and months after my beloved husband Jim died, I couldn’t read anything or even listen to music. Not even talk radio. A total blackout…
Read MoreWe usually perform two actions when looking through a window: we delve into ourselves while looking out at the world. The pictures in my series Some Windows Later (2002-ongoing) document the cities where I have lived, creating a…
Read MoreDeep in the mossy centre of my body blooms a flower. The red clover—its more than one hundred petals reaching from its centre—secures like sugar maple sap to my lungs, heart, stomach…
Read More
