My words are purple and my brain is growing green tell them about all those you found This is the time to be outta your mind. I have never been so sure of anything, she said. Or have I? I’m not sure When my kids were little, their art was everywhere. Finger...
In the early 90s, I was hired to act in Film Directing classes for two summers at the Maine Photographic and Film Institute, now called the Maine Media Workshops and College. It still takes place in the seaside town of Rockport. It is up on a hill overlooking postcard...
Love Allen yearned and survived, carrying the American zeitgeist in her skin. It began just after the last day of school. Because she loved her two children beyond reason or sensibility, she let them have the first week free and clear—no chores, no bedtimes, no...
It just wasn’t the right time. Maybe that’s what people always say. Or maybe they’ve learned not to say that. Because it does sound awful, doesn’t it? It just wasn’t the right time—when there’s a vulnerable new life budding inside you. I knew I couldn’t keep it. I was...
I became a mother when Riley was born. I became a poet when he died. His death and writing poetry are intertwined like the malformed vessels of his AVM and his brain—rooted, inseparable as a banyan and its host tree. If Riley hadn’t died, I would not be writing...
