• Friends,  hope,  Life,  Love,  Motherhood,  Poems,  Poetry

    An Attempt

    It will not stop a war now, but I’m gonna love my kid I’ll tell her every day that she’s got the things we need So she’ll believe the truest thing I know If I have any say (That power flexes big and tall, but hope and beauty strike it) It will not jam the guns up, but I’m gonna kiss my man Let our limbs wrap all around for to do what arms are made Worship the Imago Dei, not burst it into shrapnel If I have any sway We’ll hold each other when we’re scared and make ourselves more whole It will not soothe a leader’s greed, but…

  • Life,  Love,  Marriage,  Self Healing

    Developing Brains and Love Stories

    I got married in a discount gown with a low back and my older male friend said, “I though you were a good girl” when he saw the photos. I thought I was, too. Everybody told us we were children. Which is true, though not strictly speaking. We could vote and go to war, but not drink or rent a car. I suppose that says something about what the powerful think of us, but that is not my point here. My point is that neither of us had fully formed prefrontal cortexes which one needs to make long term decisions. But the more ancient, rudimentary parts of our brains—the parts…

  • Poems,  Poetry

    Eugene

    “Unforced rhythms” says the version we’re allowed to accept now That the author is dead and we found out That his heretical words didn’t do any harm But undid quite a lot—brought forward the Love that book meant —for some of us Others hope he rots in hell Why do we work so hard to protect what we make up? Was Jesus just another cult leader? Setting up another thing to keep alive, whatever the cost —blood and self-abandonment the first in line? Revolutions like the ones we need are not won with war Or euphoria Or right doctrine Or ritual They revolve around the solution. A re-love-elution Bathing in…

  • Life

    Talking to/with/for God

    Here I am, at the page. A place that has been home to me for so long, even when I haven’t come. He’s like that. Or she. I can’t say “it” because that feels so impersonal, and this presence is personal—the most personal—but also ambiguous. For a long time I have taken the ambiguity as apathy. For a long time I have wondered if God is what they said God is… Annoyed. Disinterested. Too Busy For Me. Too Important. But I asked the question: “Who am I that you are mindful of me?” like the scared girl I am, the one trying so hard to accept the lack. The one…