She is not perfectly constructed- and for that, I love her. Her dress doesn’t match her hair, sea urchin spines hang like nunchucks from her belt and she only has one breast. Composed of remnants stitched together by instinct she is beautifully flawed- like me, this poem, and the woman who made her.
Everyone knows this feeling: there is no way out. A mental hello darkness my old friend. It can be hard to locate the origin of this fatalistic story we sometimes tell ourselves about being trapped, especially when fighting and flailing from deep inside it. After all, the story of despair that we tell ourselves is sometimes… Continue reading Disrupting the Cycle of Despair
As I write this, a young man ( a boy, really) has been caught on video, harassing an elder at a March for Life rally. The young man is wearing a MAGA hat. The young man is white; the old man is a Native elder. People on social media have named both, stood up for… Continue reading Mary Oliver and the Poems We Need