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From the February 2017 Print Edition

We carry our small griefs like stones in pockets.We rub them smooth with worry, thumb their coldsolidity, and palm their petty weight.At work, in restaurants, with husbands or with wives,we warm them in our hands, their prattle lowand light against our thighs. Deep down, we knowthere’s so much . . . . Continue Reading »

The Long Room

From the June/July 2013 Print Edition

Alive in the long, deep room of the soul, I feel, at 41, absurdly old, a burnt-out heap of blackened greenwood on the grate. And this despite the steady light that fills this place and warms the burnished floors, the leather chairs, the paintings framed in gilt. This despite the crystal sparking on . . . . Continue Reading »