Over the phone, David begins to read
and Mary, in old age, in a nursing home,
returns to life in David’s voice, voicing
her words, her questioning
of her own bafflement
I stop weeding, stand still a while, hands on hips,
because it’s back again — that feeling of elation
tangled with grief.
In the long long bliss of the breastfeeding years, I belonged to that rocking chair where sun filtered through the window and the leaves of the summer pomegranate shifted slowly in the hot June air.
On exiting “Warmth of Other Suns” at the Phillips Collection, 2020
My grandmother’s days are made of bread,
a round pat-pat and the slow baking.
She waits by the oven watching a strange car
circle the streets. Maybe it holds her son,
lost to America.
In wartime the heart expands, becomes a boat for little kids.
An hour of peace and quiet is pure heaven for writing.
in the yellow light of that narrow
carpeted hallway that led to my parents’
bedroom. there was a photo of
my great-grandfather Nestor Dreyfus
whose face escaped into my mother’s face
I learned to light the candles, studied
the old books, taught my son to recognize the one
day of the week, one week of the year when we
eat matzo instead of bread and sing of freedom
and redemption.
Grassroots movements, legal organizations, and nonprofits are leading the opposition.
The lesson I draw over and over
is, everything can change
in a moment.
All that you have is lent.
The Last Generation of Black Americans Under Jim Crow and the Culture of Racism in America
Left in the wake are demonized and demoralized federal scientists.
Mushrooms, bison, and foraged plants offer a critical mix of new and old food traditions.
Each kid receives a page ripped from a dirty life;
no minimum age here for taking up the gun.
Don’t be appalled that a boy pays his hood tribute in bullets.