Patricia Jabbeh Wesley: There Will Be Times
How your arrival is now nothing to her?
And your leaving is nothing to her?
Lisa Zimmerman: Testament
I believe the truth needs no defense.
I believe that feelings might not be facts
but they matter all the same
Peter Makuck: Triggers
That look on his face. After all these years, I’d love to punch him again.
Barbara E. Young: Cousin Jill
I like a woman who can fall
Jack said to Jill.
Joy Gaines-Friedler: Domestic Violence
When she said,
this wasn’t supposed to happen to me,
a tray crashed—I heard someone laugh
(at my own failed marriage?)
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Parentage
I’m from the ocean’s melancholy, dragging
its anchors back & forth, never quiet, never
still, waves so restless they can’t mirror the moon.
Elizabeth Romero: Strawberry Moon
The moon in her lopsided veil
like a hillbilly bride
her face round and pale pink
against the darkening blue.
Marianne Moore: Marriage
I wonder what Adam and Eve
think of it by this time,
this firegilt steel
alive with goldenness…
Audio: Gregory Corso reads his poem “Marriage”
Beat generation poet Gregory Corso reads his classic poem “Marriage” from his book, The Happy Birthday of Death, first published in 1960.
Video: Stephen Jenkinson | Money & the Soul’s Desires
“Who takes care of the money?” Wisdom leader Stephen Jenkinson discusses money and its ways.
Dawn Potter| Nocturne: A Marriage
In the ancient night
the vines of summer choke
breath choke memory
blooms fatten and fall
Meg Pokrass & Jeff Friedman: Wig
The wig arrived in a pretty pink box. I’d ordered it online from a wig shop. Silky, blonde and long, it felt as if I were entertaining a movie star in my hallway. Grace Kelly in a box on my couch. So nice to meet you, I said, slipping it on.
Jena Schwartz: Salvo
A few days later, I came out to my husband. Our marriage exploded into shards in a matter of minutes.
Tony Whedon: Field of Vision | Blues and Greens
Between this and that, my wife, my dear little cowslip,
was misdiagnosed with heart failure and everything I loved
lost its pigment. The old reds weren’t red anymore,
the rose bushes on the path by the river had lost their pink
