A Mother’s Plea

people-2942909_1280Today, raising my voice
means raising a son.
Pulling the silver spoons
from his ears, long
enough for him to hear
more than
just the noise
(the racket)
that hate makes.
Peeling back his rose-
petaled lids to see more
than just the scowling
brows of mad men–
fury leaking
from their lips.

Today, raising my voice,
means raising the bar
when you say
boys will be boys
rough and tumble
sweaty and strong
muscles rippling
fists gripping
feelings tucked like
ammo, deep
in the pockets
of camo coats.
When you write
permission slips
to entitlement.

Today, raising my voice
means raising my catcher’s mitt
to help this boy of mine
dodge the zings and stings
(the “manly” things)
that your script says
he should be. To
nurture this gentle
sponge I see.
To shout down your mob
that’s riddled with wounds
and those sound
bites so

Today, raising my
voice means entering
a plea.  To the mothers
of sons. To me.
That we equip our
boys with pens.
That we grab their fists
tightly as the ink spills out,
whispering to them
that words do matter.
That, when woven
in thoughtful ways
a more powerful
and purposeful script
can slide from our grip

and into the broken spaces.


Lass of Donegal


for my great-grandmother

Aloysia Donahue, if I followed the tune to your
window, I imagine you’d welcome me inside–
meeting in the space a century divides.
But before stepping through your rounded wooden
door, I’d breath in the braided heather
of your thatched roof, the
boggy breezes of your moor.

I’d run my hands along the whitewashed
walls of your cottage–dense turf and
clay–and then center myself beside
the heated stone of your hearth–
the gathering place
for warm stories and Irish
trads played on tin whistles.

Rosy-cheeked with bun askew from
days of shearing and hauling, you’d hand me
a piping cup of malty assam
tea.  We’d sip between nibbles of
curds and chocolate potato cakes
and smile about the things blood-kin
know without the need for speaking.

Peeling off the wool comfort of our
overdue reunion, I’d then tap my toe to verses
of Mourne Mountain on the mandolin.  I’d
hum along to rhymes of West Cork’s
Fuchsia blooms and the Cotton
flowers of the boglands.  And just
when we’d danced atop the plateau

of County Clare and fiddled our way
through the Maidenhair ferns,
you’d say it’s once again time to rest.
To close the wooden door until another
ballad tumbles out the window
onto the green below–
welcoming me back home.

Patient Gardener


Sweet Sprout,                                                         
it’s time you knew                                                  
the years she spent attending                    
this dry, acidic soil bed.                                          

Your predecessors
curdled in ground’s
womb before
could bathe them.

Fist gripped on spade
she hacked and
dug at weed
and stubborn stones.

With muddied knees she
poked and prodded
until the ground
out it’s sickness.

Focused brow–sweating,
smudged– bulging seed,
just germinate!
And then
(tear-soaked) you did.  

Nourished, bed-fed,
grounded–you will
unfurl.  You will
You will lift her from

her knees.  And
hands to the sky,
she too will take root.
Staking herself
to this holy place

where the Almosts
decay and  become
the soil that nourishes
you both
from the inside out.




For decades, I tumble
and bump
along seabed’s bristled
traps and peep
Immune to anemone stings
and sharp-
toothed things–
I ride the rip

Each bounce, break and
shift softens
the sharpness of
me. The edge
that carried and cut
my way
through manic
currents and
tangled mermaid

I suspect when you
found me,
thumb-lucious, pocket-
you never even
knew my
softness grew
from violent,

Display me now-
pile high–
with my fellow salty
We’ve all been spit
out. Purged
from Sea’s belly. The
near casualties
of a war
that made us

worth salvaging.  

Sweet, Sweet Remedy



The sound of the ice cream truck softened us. We’d had a hell of a day, my four-year old and I. A pricey plumbing issue that had somehow left a stench in my mouth, frenzied flight arrangements for my husband’s last minute business trip, and an upsetting incident with the Pre-K sociopath.

We’d spent the late afternoon on eggshells, tip-toeing around for a remedy. Thomas ran to the front window when he heard the truck — his glance darting expectantly from the street and back to me. “Oooookay,” I sighed smiling. He bounced on an invisible Pogo stick as I rooted for change in the bottom of my purse. Running to the end of the driveway, we waved our arms wildly. “Ice cream! Ice Cream!” we shouted.

It was Carla leaning out the window. Her hair had grown back — just long enough to tuck behind her ears. Matted. Dishwater blonde. The purple bruising no longer tracked her arms and she had a pinkish whisper to her cheeks.

Hoisting Thomas up with a groan, I watched as he carefully examined the faded mural of options on the side of her truck. He used to fit against me like a fleece blanket, but now his lengthening frame and sharp angles wrestled to find a fit in my arms. “That one,” he said pointing to the Fudge Delight.

I hesitated while Carla dug in the coolers. I knew that this could be a quick exchange or a lengthy medical update. “How are you feeling?” I asked locking her eyes as Thomas slid down my knee. Handing me the Fudgesicle her stare was intense. “I think I’ve cured myself of cancer,” she said. “Well, that’s good news!” I replied while tearing open the plastic and handing the fudge to Thomas.

She went on as I zoned in and out. My mind drifted to the plumbing bill and my husband’s whirlwind business trip until she waved my dollar in the air bellowing, “…[T]hat sham of a medical system! Don’t let no one tell you cancer is anything more than a virus!” I caught bits about herbs, vitamins, and some sort of citrus cocktail. “Now you tell anyone who’s got ‘cancer,’” she said with exaggerated air quotes, “exactly what I just told you!”.

I nodded dutifully but imagined myself being handed a terminal diagnosis — driving wildly around our neighborhood streets, seeking out the siren call of Carla’s ice cream truck. I scolded myself internally and handed her an extra dollar — a consolation prize for my shitty attention span. “Thanks Hon,” she said, making her way back up to the driver’s seat smiling. Even at Carla’s worst, when her friend had joined her on the route, she had never stopped driving.

Again, I lifted Thomas — his face now covered in brown, sticky drips. I forced his head into the nook under my chin and breathed out the ache of the day. For a few minutes (seconds really) the in-and-out of our chests were perfectly synchronized. The music from Carla’s truck faded as she made her way back down the street-a haunting anthem. And as my son slipped down from my arms, I buzzed with gratitude for the remedies that we find in the most unexpected places.

*names changed

Just One Day


I give myself one day.
One day to hide underneath
this giant duvet.
This tent of false security.
This small grey cave where
(somehow) all of my
broken pieces
can find a space.

I give myself one day to let the
ache sit in my chest as I
feel it begin to slide,
roller-coaster like, into
my stomach. The uncomfortable
whoosh when I think
of the friends who’ve
lost all footing.

I give myself one day to look at
my son’s puzzled face as he
asks why the man who
mud-slings and name calls got
picked. And one day to tell
him that I’ve got no
answers, but that I’m
looking for them too.

I give myself one day to
keep things black and
white. To suss people up with
a stare — and to blame.
One day to think angry
thoughts and to slink
at the levels I condemn
in them.

I give myself one day to
quiet every white man
with my hand. To roll my
eyes when they say “It
will be okay.” To reply the
animal way. With a growl that
says you’ve never felt your
foundation quake.

I give myself one day
to crawl out of the downy
layers of this duvet
to bake a tray of cookies
which I will eat
for breakfast
lunch and

And I give myself one day
to fall asleep with my left
side pressed too hard — 
too urgently against
one of the good one’s.
And his heat
will reassure

And then I’ll crawl out.
Cookie crumbs will spill off
my edges. I’ll reach for my
black turtleneck but — last
minute — will throw on
my brightest scarf. I’ll
smile at the texts from

as they, too, emerge.
I’ll brush my hair and teeth.
I’ll inhabit my email replies
with the warmth of face-to-face.
I’ll wash things and fold things
and swallow my books like
comfort food — all as the veil
inches away.

And when my son assesses me
(his morning diagnosis)
he’ll still sense the weariness
there. The hovering ache. But
he’ll also see my eyes
scanning the room. Doing what
it is we do when the clouds
roll through —

seeking out the spaces where the light peeks in.

Blood River


(election season 2016)

River rushes through
Earth’s wound.  The red current framed
by mountainous sides.
One, craggy. Cloud shadowed.
The other sunlit,
but steep still.

Shale sloughs off like
rocky sunburn, into heavy depths
below the foaming churn.
Bits, once bold and sky high
condemned to river’s
dark bed.

Waters rise and fall
with rain eroding edges that conduct
the course. Boulders budge,
soil shifts as beavers flee
from sinking

This gaping gorge,
this festering slice. No vines strong
enough (or long enough) to
stitch the sides. No piney
sap to seal the

Relentless, red and
forward fierce, river roars toward it’s
conclusion. To the place where
waters congregate.
Where mountains
have no say.


After the Storm

motion-1641979_1280Foam glides across the battered beach.
Weightless, fast-no dunes to
snag on. Now over a board
leaving nails bearded white–
the storm’s after

Erosion posts (splinter heavy)
some snapped and
leaning. Waves-sea’s wash
cycle switched
from roll to churn.
Wind spins carry

hints of fall, pushing swash
zone relics from their
backsides. Rushing
gulls through their
salty assessments.

did you go, fitful storm? Your
energy–those forceful
thrusts and gusts
just echoes now.
The marsh–a

Birds, once dignified-long-
necked, erect, swoop
and scurry, frantic in
your wake. The
reassembly of
tattered nests,

rooted bluff nooks, and
broken dock hollows.
Ankles muddy,
feathers askew
Egret hunts and
pecks along

the new topography. The
shore–storm worn,
forever changed.
Claw first, Fiddlers
test the air
peeking out

their tiny mud cubbies.
Dare we reconvene?
They ask aloud.
Dare we croak,
And squawk,
And fiddle

Even when we know more
Rains will come to
wash away our
cradle? To carve
new vacancies
In our landscape?

Yes!-a symphony of yes.
Our voices defy these
taunting winds. With
claws, beaks and
fins, we’ll climb
the scaffolding

Again and again and




I picked up my charcoal and went back to the eyes.  They were vacant, but not in a good way.  Not in the way that makes a self-portrait haunting or provocative.  They were dead, really.  My teacher, a seasoned artist, was hosting a two day workshop in her home studio.  As the hours passed, she made her way around the room of seven, issuing critiques on our technique and progress.

“Why are you doing that?” she asked, her breath on my neck.  Ever uncomfortable when she approached, I immediately began shading an area that didn’t need it.  “Just adding some detail,” I blubbered.  “Jenny-you have got to step back.  You’re being too literal here.  I mean, you are drawing each individual eyelash. Can you actually see each eyelash when you look in the mirror?”

Thank God.  She’d given me an opening.  “As a matter-of-fact,” I responded looking at her deadpan, “with my new Cover Girl Lash Blast Mascara, I can”.  She half-laughed and began making her way to the next easel.  And just when I thought I was off the hook, she looked back over her shoulder. “Something’s missing,” she said.  “And I suggest you explore it.”

I knew she was right.  I knew I had heavy chains on both ankles.  One that tethered me to a city I didn’t want to live in and the other latched  to a nasty hangover and the unrelenting itch for 5 pm.  But drawing that version of me wasn’t on the table.  I didn’t know how to draw a stranger.  

So I pushed through the exercise, attempting to make it blurry and abstract enough for her approval.  Never daring to reveal the gooey, monstrous mess that my insides had become. The portrait that resulted was of a woman that looked nothing like me.  It wasn’t interesting or important.  It was a throwaway, like the paper you’d wrap a fish in.  



But instead of scrapping it immediately, I kept it close by for four more years.  A bit of shading here, a sparkling earring there–adding layers to a mask that hadn’t suited me in the first place.   An artist friend once told me, “The secret of creating something beautiful is knowing when to stop”.  Her words vaporized as I kept at it.  If I could just get the angle of the chin right. The whisper of a cheekbone.  Then, surely, she would be complete.   

What should have been an exploration–an artistic purge–had immobilized me.  My inner-territory had grown so foreign, so wildly unattended that it was impassable.  I was a madwoman sketching in the dark. Zooming in on my lashes, the curves of my ear–was self-preservation.  A frog splayed out in a tray with pins in each limb. Up close, my parts didn’t seem at odds with one another.  My facts and fictions were separated by marked out squares, and could be examined separately–or not at all.

More years passed until my charcoal became an unusable stub.  The paper, torn through from my sweat and heavy pressing with holes where my eyes should be. I had no choice but to toss me out.  I upgraded from newsprint to canvas and bought some colored paints. But as is the case with any renovation, the demolition stage came first.  At times, the transition was excruciating.  The colors fought against my blending.  The canvas laughed.  I eyed the balled up original in the trash and contemplated pressing her out.  Returning to the comfort of my previous vacancies.  

But eventually, the redesign took shape.  And the new portrait, the one with a palette as vibrant as my insides, is a work in progress.  And when she’s looking at me wrong–when her mouth crooks to the side or her eyes drift toward the hollows, I don’t mindlessly slap on new layers.  Instead, I reach toward the painting and I hook her eyelids with my thumbs.  I pull them back until she’s forced to focus back at me.  And we stare at one another until a silent pact is made.  A promise to share the weight of who we were and who we’ve become.  

Both of us willing to explore the untapped wilderness.  



I envy the small green snake
peeking out from behind my Begonias.
Tired of her skin, she slithers out of it. Sloughs it off,
leaving it tangled in the leaves like a discarded coat.
One ziiiiiiiiip from eyecaps to tail and she is new.
Scales shiny as airport shoes, she carves through
the thick St. Augustine grass. A regal
huntress, parting the tides with
intimidating ease.

I envy the patient cicada
ground-bound, larval and waiting to push
his way out of his dusty incubation. Tree-
clinging as he unwraps his luscious iridescence
from it’s casing. Blazing from silence to
symphony in the course of one day.
Tymbals vibrating their eager
mating song, attracting love
on the first go-round.

Buy why? Why don’t I
have buttons down my spine or simple
snaps to yank at when my body begs to re-emerge
as something new–when I ache to boast and shine?
Why? Why must I carry these heavy rewrites
in my cavity (this evidence of change
like anchors on my wings) when
all I really want to do is sing?

Maybe one day you’ll see me
latched barkside to that tree.
Teasing my way out of the skin
I’m in until I plunk into the dirt.
Until I slither and then fly. Shiny
and high. Leaving only
an effigy–a hollowed-
out replica